


Always Trying To Get You Off

by SnitchesAndTalkers



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Taking Back Sunday, The Academy Is...
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - No Band, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Depression, Dirty Talk, Legal AU, M/M, Peterick, Prostitution, Smut, Streetsmart!Patrick, Under(the)age (of majority), lawyer!pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2018-12-23 12:26:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 69,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11989761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/pseuds/SnitchesAndTalkers
Summary: Pete is a freshly qualified attorney working for Chicago’s Public Defender’s Office, a job he's done for six months and already thinks he might be starting to hate. Defending thieves, meth heads and weekend drunks isn't exactly changing the city for the better. Patrick Vaughn is an eighteen year old petty thief and troublemaker who crosses his path quite by chance one November morning. A fleeting and mostly inconsequential meeting, they don't even exchange a single word.So why does Patrick goddamn Vaughn keep showing up at the most inopportune moments? Why can't Pete get the kid out of his head? Why doesn't “inappropriate conduct” seem to be enough to stop him…Like Romeo and Juliet if Romeo were an idiot and Juliet had the foulest mouth this side of Lake Michigan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, how are you? Thanks for taking the time to click and I hope you enjoy what I have lined up for you! I fucked with the timeline. Not going to lie. Patrick is in his late teens and Pete, Joe and Andy are all in their mid twenties. You can set this any time you want between around 2001 and 2008 (Me? Obsessed with pre-hiatus? Never!). I'll be updating weekly on Wednesdays if you'd like to check back for more.

If Pete thought law school would lead to a life of glamour and cash and a Mercedes on the driveway of his beautiful house then reality is dealing him a crushing dose of disappointment.

It turns out that being an attorney—specifically a public defender in a desperately underfunded office in the middle of Chicago—is more about fourteen hour days and eating ramen at his kitchen counter in his underwear at midnight whilst he pores over the next day’s papers. It’s being threatened by meth heads on a daily basis whilst he tries his level best to take a coherent statement about why, exactly, they were in a liquor store with a gun pointed at the cashier’s head. It’s dealing with an egotistical boss with impossible targets and a salary that looks okay on paper but, it turns out, doesn’t stretch particularly far when trying to live alone in central Chicago. Sure, he could move back home to his old room, his old twin bed and his posters on the wall but he’s twenty-five and trying desperately not to be quite so pathetic.

Specifying his studies to criminal law seemed like such an altruistic notion to a starry-eyed twenty-two year old, fresh from his Poli-Sci degree and determined to specialise in state-appointed defence. Helping the helpless. Rescuing those in need from a system determined to grind them to dust whilst the rich and powerful hired expensive attorneys in sharp suits and walked away without a care in the world. Yeah, it was going to be great, he was going to fucking _crush_ it, he would be the best damn public defender Illinois had ever seen.

He’s been cussed at—actual, vehement cussing, the kind that would make Jerry Springer blush—three times today. All three times by people he was trying to help. He sighs into his ramen and tries to focus on the case file that was thrown onto his desk at eight pm—three clear hours after the time he was _supposed_ to leave the building—but the letters are blurring, his eyes stinging. He should just quit being so fucking vain and wear his glasses, contacts burn his eyes when they’ve been in for eighteen hours, fourteen of those spent staring at his computer screen.

He tells himself the paperwork can wait as he showers and changes into his pajama pants, tattooed upper body bare. He scratches absently at his lower stomach, at the tanned skin inked with the ridiculous bartskull that had seemed like such a good idea at nineteen, back when he didn’t realise that “permanent” meant “forever”. He sinks into the ratty couch and reaches for the remote control, endless channels at his disposal and not a damn thing to watch. His eyes drift back to the file on the coffee table.

He fumbles for the paperwork with a sigh. He knows only too well that he won’t sleep until he’s read it.

But his eyes still drift, over the ratty couch, the cracked countertops and cabinet doors that don’t hang right. The apartment isn’t quite what he anticipated either. Ostensibly a two bed but really a one bed with a slightly larger than average closet, it’s small and cramped even when inhabited by a single, not particularly big guy. The throws from IKEA that his mom picked out don’t make the living room-cum-kitchen look homely so much as draw attention to how battered and stained the couch is underneath them. The tiny table and two chairs crammed into a corner seem to mock him because what use does a single man who eats all of his meals whilst vertical want with a table and two fucking chairs? He can see his bed from his position on the couch and it’s equally uninviting; rumpled sheets he didn’t have time to shake out that morning sliding off the mattress and onto the worn rug on the floor. Another reminder that there’s no one to share the space with so why fucking bother?

He has a nice TV though, a decent sound system and a fridge on the counter just for beer. The obvious trappings of the bachelor lifestyle.

He sighs and rubs his eyes, tries to alleviate the stinging. His dad keeps telling him he needs to pay his dues, that _he_ didn’t walk into a well paid job straight from college either. The talk is always delivered with the kind of disappointed, irritated undertone that he’s come to expect from his father. The words are technically encouragement but linger over _this isn’t what I paid for_ and _I told you so_ like the velvet smooth of whisky over the cold hardness of ice, laced and bound so tightly in parental overinvestment that Pete can feel it pulling at him, dragging against him like a physical bond.

His father expects nothing less than a copy of himself. Same university, same degree, same law school, _same, same, same_. Civil litigation, _that’s_ where the money is, follow in your father’s footsteps, you have the name, what more do you want? He wants something else, something real and exciting and public defence is about as real and exciting as it gets for a young, freshly qualified attorney. There are many other ways he’s sought to disappoint his father over the years but that seems to be the largest of their bones of contention in a collection that’s quite frankly worthy of The Field Museum.

But still, he sort of thought the real world might be a little more glamorous than a shitty apartment and a life consumed entirely by a job he thinks he might have already started to hate. Not that he’s going to tell his dad that. He flips through the case file with a sigh; another junkie, another assault on a police officer, another morning spent in court arguing with an apathetic judge and a single-minded prosecutor.

Sometimes he sort of wishes he wasn’t single. He wishes he had someone he could curl up with on the couch and complain about work, have them rub his shoulders and tell him it’ll be fine. The swirling maelstrom of his thoughts can be a destructive cycle to try and break free from and it might be… nice, to have someone to bounce them off once in awhile. It could be fun to have someone press up behind him in bed, a hard cock and roaming hands rather than jerking off in the shower when he can summon up the energy.

He huffs a little, tries to get comfortable and forces himself to read the case file. He can’t head into court unprepared, he lacks the flair of some of the more senior defenders to think on his feet in front of a judge. He needs methodical preparation and careful consideration of the facts. He _needs_ to read the damn case file.

It’s inevitable, of course, that he wakes with a jolt at seven thirty the next morning, papers scattered across his stomach and chest, spilling down onto the floor next to the couch and drool on his chin. His neck is sore and stiff where he slept crunched up at an odd angle and his hair is starting to spring back into his natural thick curls and he knows—he fucking _knows_ —he won't have enough time to straighten it properly. He swears, staggering to his feet and dragging on a shirt and tie, his pants, his shoes. He does the best he can do with his hair, silently wondering if his dad might be right and it's time to get it cut short and sensible, throwing his jacket and thick winter coat over it all before barrelling out of the door without pausing for breakfast. He should have been at work thirty minutes ago.

The wind is whistling—cold and biting—down the street where his apartment building sits. He huddles a little further into his warm wool scarf and walks briskly in an attempt to stay warm. He debates the relative advantages of the L over the bus—quicker, possibility of a seat, he _did_ spend all of that money on a multi day ticket—versus the disadvantages—it smells of piss, it doesn’t drop him right outside the coffee shop, slightly greater chance of winding up next to someone with their dick hanging out of their pants—and heads for the bus stop, the soles of his shoes tapping smartly against the concrete. He tugs his scarf up a little further, snuggles down into it.

It really is fucking _freezing_.

The bus is crowded and he finds himself squeezed in against his fellow passengers, no sign of a seat as he grabs at the handrail as though his life depends on it. Given the apparent lack of survival instinct of most city bus drivers, it probably does. The kid next to him fidgets endlessly, dragging at the hat on his head, pulling at his denim jacket—way too thin for this time of year—and squinting around the bus like he’s agitated about something. Pete would dearly love to shuffle away as the kid encroaches on his personal space way more than is strictly necessary even given the lack of space but there isn’t really anywhere to go so he grits his teeth and promises himself a Starbucks as a reward for not hissing at him to back the fuck off.

He takes a moment to assess the boy pushed up tight against him; dirty blonde hair peeks from beneath the black knit cap pulled low over his ears. Ears with lobes that are tinged pink from the cold, much like the tip of his neat nose and the crests of his cheekbones. Pinched by Jack Frost, his mom would say when he was a kid, squeezing his cheeks. He suspects the kid wouldn’t appreciate that. At all. He glares up at Pete—unusual because Pete isn’t exactly tall but this kid is fucking _short_ —with narrowed eyes the same colour as Lake Michigan on a hot summer’s day, full lips drawn into a tight, irritated line. He’s kind of cute but then Pete always did have a thing for blondes. Even so, he’d really appreciate it if he’d stop fucking _grinding_ on him like a horny chihuahua.

Still, he looks away, he’s pretty sure he could take the kid in a fist fight without any real issue but this is public transport in Chicago and he’s seen enough of the criminal makeup of the streets to want to avoid finding out whether or not he’s primed and ready to pull a knife or worse. So, he stares out of the window at the buildings rolling by and tries to concentrate on the rumbling of the bus under his feet rather than the golden haired boy with the pretty lips rubbing up against him. All he’s doing is serving to remind Pete exactly how long it’s been since he last got laid. Depressing really.

The kid alights at the next stop with a final scowl and Pete heaves a sigh of relief, absorbing the space he’s abandoned and flexing his fingers against his briefcase handle. Two more stops and he’s at his office. He should make it to his desk for eight fifteen which—although it’s a clear forty-five minutes before his _actual_ contracted start time—is nowhere near early enough. He’ll probably have to cancel on Andy and his promise of drinks and a few games of pool later. Again. It’s a wonder he has any friends left the way he’s constantly ducking out of arrangements. He’ll make it up to him, he promises himself, mentally shuffling around his calendar to clear a few hours at the weekend.

He scrolls through his phone, punches in a quick message to Andy and hits send— _Sorry dude, not gonna make it tonight. Saturday night at Huxley’s?_ —then shoves it back into his pants pocket. It vibrates within seconds— _You’re coming tonight or goddammit I’m making you go to WOD Saturday morning at 6_. Pete smiles, if there’s one thing guaranteed to have him rushing through his work it’s the threat of an early morning crossfit session with Andy.

He almost laughs ten minutes later, as he stands at the counter of Starbucks, watching the barista add the steamed milk to the cup that _literally_ has his name on it. He can practically taste the pumpkin cream cheese muffin he added to his order as a frankly brilliant afterthought but realises, sinking his hand into his empty coat pocket, that _of course_ the kid was lifting his wallet. He wasn’t even subtle about it. But he doesn’t—laugh, that is—he smiles apologetically, mutters an embarrassed _sorry, forgot my wallet_ and hurries out of the coffee shop and back into the bright light of a November morning in Chicago.

He joins the bustle of commuters hurrying down the sidewalk and makes a list of all of the people he needs to call—his bank, his credit card company, the DMV—to cancel the various cards and licences held in his wallet and reassures himself that at least his work ID is on the lanyard around his neck. He’s not even mad, though he knows he should be, knows he has a right to be. It’s just a wallet, he reminds himself, no one died and it was ugly anyway, a gift from an ex he’d rather not remember. It’ll no doubt be in a trash can somewhere close to the bus stop and he wonders if maybe he should go and take a look after work.

He makes his way into the office and to his desk—stomach growling and body crying out for caffeine—and groans out loud at the pile of new files that have already appeared next to his keyboard as he fires the computer into life. Thirty-seven unread emails await, each one with a mocking red exclamation point next to it. Pete would bet a dollar to a dime that not even half are as urgent as those sending them think they are.

“No green mermaid this morning?” Joe asks laconically from behind a precariously stacked mountain of files and thick curls breaking free from what—Pete is sure—was a neat and tidy man bun when he left the house this morning.

“No,” he sighs deeply as he contemplates the white plastic cup of weak, tasteless shit he got from the vending machine in the lobby with the handful of loose change he found at the bottom of his briefcase. “I mean, I tried but… Some kid stole my wallet on the way in.”

“Fuck, no way,” Joe raises his eyebrows. “You got mugged?”

“Nah,” he’s already loosening his tie in the artificial, overheated air of the office, would like to roll up his sleeves but doesn’t want to show off his tattoos. “Just pickpocketed. At least, I think it was him. That or I just got an impromptu lap dance and the lack of wallet is just a coincidence.”

“Lame,” Joe expertly extracts a file from halfway down the towering precipice of paper piled in front of him. Pete waits in anticipation for the whole messy business to crash to the floor but it doesn’t. Joe has fucking _skills_ when it comes to maintaining the chaos on his desk. “I’ll spot you for lunch.”

“Thanks,” he mutters absently, reaching for the first court order to be completed and filed. “Hey, you coming to Huxley’s tonight? Pool and beer?”

“Sounds good man,” Joe nods, already engrossed in his work. “Count me in.”

His mind drifts, unwisely, back to the golden-haired kid on the bus, the naked challenge in his eyes as he glared at him defiantly. He wonders if that’s the moment his fingers had been digging through his coat pocket. He assumes so, the kid was clearly anticipating getting caught, he just didn’t wager on his victim being quite so much of a dumbass. He was cute though. But so young, he reminds himself. Way too young.

He hopes the kid at least has the sense to use the sixty bucks tucked into the bill fold to buy himself a decent coat and a hot meal.

He’s filed three orders, tidied up a couple of statements and chased a social worker for a competency assessment when he gets a call from his supervisor. Some kid has been arrested for shoplifting, needs a lawyer at the precinct as soon as possible. He grabs his jacket and heads for the door, it’s a short enough walk and there’s no way he’s going to persuade his boss to stretch to a cab fare. The air is still crisp though not as bitingly cold as it was earlier in the morning, it’s pleasant to walk across the city even if, as lunchtime approaches, his stomach is growling uncomfortably and Joe isn’t around with that offer of lunch.

He shows his ID at the precinct and is ushered into an interview room. He glances over the brief in front of him, some kid picked up for shoplifting, caught before he could even get the damn thing into his bag. No loss to the store, sizeable chance Pete can show no real intent, his favourite kind of case. 

He hears his client before he sees him, vicious swearing and threats shouted loudly down the echoing hallways. He really doesn’t want to deal with a screamer today, closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing shallowly through his mouth.

“Get the fuck off of me, motherfucker! I didn’t do anything wrong, I was just fucking _looking_ at it! Since when was it a fucking crime to fucking _look_ at something in a fucking _store?_ Fuck you, get your fucking hands _off of_ me!”

The shouting stops as the kid is brought into the room, he hears the footsteps, the thump of an ass hitting a chair and the accompanying officer’s sarcastic _have fun_. He opens his eyes to assess his client and feels them spring wide in shock. For a moment, he just stares at dusky blonde hair and ocean blue eyes that scowl back fiercely, chin raised and fists clenched.

“Well,” he begins after a moment, glancing down at the sheet again for the kid’s name. “Patrick? I guess you can give me back my wallet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapters are always nerve-wracking so it would be super amazing if you could let me know what you think with a little comment. Or hit the kudos button if you liked it but you're a little pressed for time. Either way, have a fabulous day and keep on smiling!
> 
> I'm over on tumblr and you can find me at sn1tchesandtalkers - please come and say hi. I'm super nice, I swear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said Wednesday, you got Thursday _but_ I promise from next week, it's going to be Wednesday. 
> 
> Now then, gather round for story time with Snitches. It's a little like story time with Patrick but way more interesting. So, once upon a time, way back in 2004, there was another fanfiction site where all of the social reprobates that write FOB fic would gather. I was one of those reprobates. I wrote a couple of fics over there that I was particularly proud of--one was named Cute Without the E and was an amazing bandom mashup about two powerful pimps controlling their rent boys and the other was named The System and was about a very angry foster kid named Patrick who's fostered by the Wentz family. There's a point to this, I'm getting to it, don't rush me, okay?
> 
> That site was taken down in 2009 with pretty much no warning and all of my work was lost forever *dramatic*. I thought about rewriting them but to be honest... Couldn't be bothered. _This_ is my homage to those fallen fics. I hope you enjoy it.

The house is shitty, that much Patrick can’t deny. Even surrounded by it’s shitty neighbours, it sags as though the very effort of staying upright is way too much to bear. The paint on the sidings has gone entirely, leaving nothing but bleached and greying boards that soak up the moisture when it’s wet then shrink and crack when it’s dry leaving them brittle as broken bones. The grass in the front yard is waist high and the porch has more missing boards than present ones, most of them rotting on the floor where they fell. Gabe never was one for home improvements.

 

Then again, Patrick supposes as he hops over a particularly perilous board right by the front door, it’s better than living on the streets which—as Gabe reminds him frequently—is the only other real option available to him. Gabe doesn’t know he has a plan, wouldn’t care even if he were to tell him. He shoves the door with his shoulder as he lifts the latch in just the right way and the door creaks, groans and gives, swinging back and he can make his way into the gloom.

 

It’s not much warmer inside than outside. Patrick doesn’t really remember when he last felt warm through to his bones but supposes it was probably at the last orphanage the Department of Children and Family Services had tried. _Orphanage_ always seemed like an incorrect term for Patrick—he’s not an orphan, his mom is alive and well somewhere in Chicago, just nowhere near him and that suits him fine. Well, she’s _probably_ alive and as well as can be expected given her… circumstances. Either way, Patrick’s never much cared for the orphanages, they’re all the same, clinical buildings staffed by people that don’t seem to give much of a shit either way.

 

He doesn’t think Gabe gives a shit about him either, but Gabe at least has a _use_ for him and so he keeps him around and lets him sleep on a mattress on the floor in the corner of what Patrick assumes would be the dining room if this were a normal house. But it’s not. It’s more like Fagin’s den, inhabited by transient kids— _just like Patrick_ —with some kind of useful skill— _just like Patrick_ —willing to exchange that skill for somewhere relatively safe to sleep— _just like_ … Yeah.

 

Useful people are the ones you keep around, he’s learnt this quickly and—some might argue—the hard way. Useful people have a place to sleep and _that_ is the most sought after commodity he could care to list if asked. A couple of nights spent pacing the city’s streets, too terrified to sleep, taught him the importance of four square walls and a door above all other things.

 

“Hey _guero,”_ Gabe calls from the table in the kitchen where he sits, weighing out bags of weed. “Beckett says you got picked up today?”

 

Patrick scowls into the collar of his jacket. Fucking William that fucking asshole, _he_ was the one that was _supposed_ to keep an eye on the security guard, he was _supposed_ to warn Patrick if he was coming while Patrick casually shoved the hoodie into his battered military backpack. It’s not like Patrick could see over the fucking clothing racks in the first place, that’s literally the only reason he took that lanky motherfucker with him. Fucking asshole.

 

“Yeah,” he mutters cautiously. “But I gave them the name and everything you told me and they just cautioned me. A civil demand or some shit.”

 

Gabe glances up from his scales, dark brows knitted over darker eyes. Patrick shifts uneasily, wonders if he has the time to make it out of the door and down the porch before Gabe could clear the kitchen. He knows he doesn’t. He’s good at slipping away in a crowd where his short stature makes it easy to dart nimbly through packed bodies but against Gabe, all long legs and powerful muscle out on the deserted street? No way. He glances apprehensively at Gabe’s fist, clenched lightly on the table, tan skin stretched over the knuckles. He knows how they feel thudding into the softer parts of his body.

 

“But I got like three wallets on the bus this morning,” he remembers, hauling them out of his jacket pocket like the ark of the fucking covenant. Would have been four, he thinks sourly, if that prick in the suit hadn’t shown up at the precinct. What were the fucking odds of him lifting _any_ public defender’s wallet, let alone the one that had been assigned to advise him. “A hundred eighty six dollars in cash and a shit ton of credit cards…”

 

Gabe holds out his hand and Patrick crosses the room, places them down carefully into his palm. He hopes to god Gabe doesn’t figure on the twenty dollars Patrick slipped from one of the wallets into his jacket, tucked safely against his chest. For a second, Patrick thinks he might ask him to empty his pockets—it wouldn’t be the first time—but instead he nods, purses his lips and waves Patrick away. He takes the invitation gladly, spinning on his heel and heading for the door when Gabe calls after him.

 

“Don’t forget, you’re working tonight.”

 

“I wasn’t gonna,” Patrick mutters, stomach churning at the thought. He heads to the dining room and flops down onto his mattress, staring up at the cracked, stained plaster on the ceiling. He hates Gabe, despises him with a burning brightness he’s sure could warm him on the colder nights in the house. But he’s better than the alternative, he reminds himself, he’s better than going back _there._

 

It’s a universally acknowledged truth that the care system, no matter which county, which state, which fucking _country,_ is fundamentally broken. Too many kids tossed headlong into the system with too few adults functioning on no more than basic apathy to care for them. There are the luckiest few that get adopted; the youngest, the cutest, the most charming. Beyond that are the foster placements, the “real” homes and “real” families and—Patrick knows—that’s a close second. But beyond that? The older kids, the ones that are no longer charmingly cute, the ones with “issues”—be they psychological, educational, physical—the ones that are just too broken to behave in an acceptable way, these are the ones placed in the orphanages.

 

And—Patrick knows—the thing about orphanages is that staff cycle from optimism to ennui with remarkable speed. Most just quit and move on, find their way to change the world elsewhere. Others stay, become bitter, despise their jobs and, eventually, despise the kids they associate with their misery. Those are the frightening ones. Those are the ones that deliver beatings for minor and major infractions alike, the same level of punishment given for fighting as for leaving the bathroom light on. Those are the ones Patrick would do anything to avoid.

 

He first ran away at fifteen, was found by Chicago PD’s finest and returned like so much lost property. He lost all privileges, all opportunities to leave the home that weren’t school-related. He tried again four months later, again seven months after that and so on and so forth until eventually, he supposes, they just gave up looking for him.

 

That was when he met Gabe, charming and handsome, he offered Patrick somewhere to stay for the night. If he was surprised when Gabe told him they’d be sharing a bed, he tried not to show it, lying stiffly at the edge of Gabe’s mattress in his boxers and t-shirt. But Gabe rolled after him, grabbed his hand and pushed it into his shorts. He had worked out on his own that he was gay by the age of twelve but he’d never actually _touched_ another guy’s dick. Gabe didn’t say but he kind of figured that being allowed to stay hinged on doing what he was told so he gave a fumbling hand job and a sloppy blowjob and Gabe seemed happy enough to let him stay.

 

He was just relieved Gabe didn’t try to fuck him.

 

The relief was short-lived when, the next morning, Gabe told him matter-of-factly that he could stay but he needed to pay rent. He panicked, stammered that he was looking for a job but opportunities weren’t exactly easy to come by. Gabe didn’t reply, just stared at him in a way that created a silence he knew he needed to fill with a solution. A thought occurred to him, whispered from the recesses of his subconscious but he blurted it out anyway, ignored the uneasy knot it put in his stomach, _You could fuck me? Instead of rent?_

 

Gabe laughed and shook his head, told him he dealt in cash not ass but if he was serious, he knew a way he could earn some money… He lost his virginity that night in the backseat of a rusted Dodge. It hurt—physically and emotionally—it was fucking humiliating and he felt disgusting and dirty as the guy shoved a handful of crumpled, sweaty notes into his hand that he knew he’d have to hand immediately to Gabe. He cried for four hours straight when he got back to the house before pulling himself together and swearing he wouldn’t cry over anything so fucking stupid ever again.

 

Now it doesn’t really seem to matter so much. It was just the first time he did a thing that he’s done lots of times since. No one makes a big deal out of the first time they eat a banana, the first time they ride on the L. Why should sex be any different? 

 

There’s a twitch of movement under the blanket tossed across the mattress, he reaches out instinctively to touch the softly stirring boy next to him. Just a light touch, a hand cupped softly against a narrow, angular shoulder.

 

“Just me,” he reassures the kid, watches as he shifts onto his side. He’s wearing Patrick’s hoodie, the hood yanked up and the drawstring pulled tight for warmth. Patrick was trying to get him his own and the one he’d found was perfect with a thick, downy lining that would have kept out the damp chill of the house. He can’t risk going back to try again, he got lucky landing a cop that felt sorry for him and a younger attorney that gave half of a rat’s ass about his job, there’s no way that would happen again. _Fucking William._

 

“Where’d you go?” He asks quietly, sleep clinging to the edges of his voice like a comfort blanket, warm and soft.

 

“Work,” Patrick smiles, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a couple of battered sandwiches. “You hungry?”

 

The pastrami on rye is grabbed with enthusiasm, small, delicate bites taken from it as though he’s savouring it. As though he isn’t sure when he’ll get the next meal. Patrick smiles at him and pulls out a can of soda, handing it over with a murmured assurance, “There’ll be more, Brendon, I promise. I haven’t let you starve yet, have I?”

 

Brendon was placed in the same foster placement as Patrick when they were kids, Patrick was ten and Brendon seven and Patrick had taken his role as older brother with studied seriousness. Brendon, for his part, was enraptured by Patrick, followed him everywhere, could be found curled at the bottom of Patrick’s bed most mornings. Patrick didn’t mind. He kind of liked the hero treatment. So of course, when it came to running away from the orphanage, he didn’t hesitate to bring Brendon with him.

 

But what had made perfect sense in their darkened bedroom planning back at the home didn’t seem to translate in the real world. _I’ll get a job,_ Patrick whispered, _I’ll rent us an apartment, I can look after the both of us, I mean, I’m not a kid any more._

 

It seems, however, that no one wants to employ a scruffy teenager who can’t afford new clothes or a decent haircut and Gabe’s rate of rent always correlates exactly with whatever Patrick has managed to steal or earn on any given day. Sure he sneaks away the occasional ten or twenty dollar bill, tries to stash it away in the pocket of his backpack but Brendon’s always _starving_ and Patrick can’t bring himself to let him go hungry for the greater good.

 

“I’m working again tonight,” he informs Brendon softly, feels him tense and rushes to reassure him. “Only for a couple hours, I’ll be back, I promise.”

 

“Can I come with you?” Brendon pleads quietly. Patrick shakes his head so fast he feels the burn of it shooting up his neck and into his jaw. He feels nauseous at the very thought of what would happen to Brendon out on the streets, a lamb to the slaughter because if there’s one thing Patrick’s learnt, it’s that those men like their whores young. “I can just…”

 

“Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow,” he assures him, aches a little with the knowledge of the lie. Brendon grasps his hand and squeezes softly, he squeezes back and wishes the younger boy’s fingers weren’t quite so cold. He should have left him in the orphanage. At least there he’d be safe and warm and fed. “Oh, I got you some comic books - maybe you could read them while I’m working? Keep yourself out of trouble?”

 

“Cool,” Brendon flips through the comics Patrick hands him with interest.

 

“I don’t know if they’re good ones,” he shrugs, although he hopes they are, god knows the kid deserves something nice. They were just the ones closest to the door, the ones he’d been able to sneak into his bag casually without anyone noticing before slipping back out onto the street and into the crowds. “I just grabbed whatever. Probably got something fucking shitty like, I dunno, Radioactive Man and Fallout Boy…”

 

“No,” Brendon insists, drawing his skinny knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly. “These are cool, thanks.”

 

He sits back against the wall next to him, pops the tab on his own can of soda and takes a long drink, washing down a couple of aspirin with it. His head is killing him, the headache dull and constant since he dropped his glasses running from the cops one night. He went back to look for them but they were smashed beyond repair, the frames bent and broken, the lenses cracked. The money he has would barely stretch to an eye exam, never mind frames and lenses, that shit is expensive. His inhaler is running low too, that’s going to be another sixty dollars they can’t afford but, unlike the glasses, he needs it to stay alive. And him staying alive keeps Brendon alive so the whole process is largely non-negotiable. Brendon leans into him, head tucked into his shoulder as he starts to flick idly through one of the comics.

 

“When are we gonna get an apartment?” He asks quietly. He doesn’t look up, eyes fixed carefully on a glossy Taco Bell ad, voice soft. “I fucking hate Gabe. I don’t like how he looks at me.”

 

“I know, dude,” he pats the top of Brendon’s head awkwardly. He’s never been great with physical affection but forces himself for the younger boy’s sake. “I’m working on it.”

 

“‘Trick?” Brendon’s voice is tight. “Where do you work? Like, at night? Just I thought maybe I could work there too and then we'd have more cash and-”

 

“At a bar,” Patrick shrugs blithely but the lie tastes sour on his tongue. “You're too young.”

 

“You’re not twenty-one,” Brendon counters smartly and goddamn the little shit for not being as dumb as he usually looks. “You can’t work at a bar if you’re not twenty-one.”

 

“I just wash the glasses, fuck,” Patrick snaps, shoving Brendon away sharply. “Would you just fucking drop it?”

 

“I only-”

 

“I said fucking _drop it,_ Brendon,” he snarls, shoving at the boy again. Brendon shoves back— _hard_ —and Patrick is sort of impressed as he thumps back against the wall. He keeps forgetting the kid has three inches on him already, he’ll probably have a couple more by the time he’s done growing.

 

“You don’t have to be such a fucking _dick,”_ Brendon snaps, dark eyes blazing with fire. “Why you gotta be such a fucking faggoty _princess_ about it anyway?”

 

“Oh, _fuck you,”_ Patrick launches himself at Brendon, lands on him squarely, straddling his hips with a wrist caught in each hand and pinned to the mattress. Brendon may be taller but Patrick is stockier and heavier, can pin him with ease. He leans down into Brendon’s face, features twisted into a scowl as he gets closer, breathing heavy as their noses touch. Brendon’s eyes widen in fear and he struggles against him. “You fucking asked for this, you little shit…”

 

With that he sticks out his tongue and drags it across Brendon’s face from his jaw, up and over his cheek, slicking back and shoving it into his ear as he squirms beneath him, _“Come on!_ That’s… You’re fucking _gross,_ dude! Stop!”

 

“Tell me you love me,” Patrick does the same to the other cheek, this time licking over Brendon’s closed eye.

 

“Fucking knock it off you freak!” Brendon is giggling, helpless beneath him. “I’m not telling you shit!”

 

“Tell me you fucking love me,” he pokes his tongue into Brendon’s ear once more, gripping on tight with his thighs against boney hips as Brendon bucks to free himself. “Say “I fucking love you, Patrick,” come on!”

 

“Fuck, _fine,_ I fucking love you, Patrick,” he gasps, pushing him away the second his wrists are released. “Ugh, you’re fucking disgusting, so gross. I’m gonna smell of your fucking spit for days.”

 

“Only if you don’t fucking _wash,_ you fucking gremlin,” Patrick lounges back against the wall and picks up his discarded sandwich, taking a bite before addressing Brendon around a mouthful of food. “Seriously though dude, don’t call me a faggot, okay? Not cool.”

 

“Sorry,” Brendon grins, all bright eyes and irresistible charm. Not for the first time he reminds Patrick of a loyal, hyperactive puppy. He looks at Patrick speculatively for a moment before speaking curiously. “So, you’re gay, right?”

 

“Oh, shit…” Patrick groans and closes his eyes, certain this can’t end well.

 

“Have you ever, like, had a crush on _me?”_ Brendon asks thoughtfully, picking up his scattered comics and gathering them onto his side of the mattress. “Just wondering. For science.”

 

“No, Brendon,” Patrick sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I promise you, your ass is _totally_ safe around me.”

 

“I guess we’re just too close, huh?” Brendon begins to flip idly through one of the comics.

 

“No,” Patrick counters, climbing to his feet and heading for the bathroom. “You’re just too fucking ugly. I’m getting ready for work.”

 

He ducks with a laugh as Brendon’s empty soda can sails towards his head, grins at the kid as it rattles against the wall next to him.

 

“Hey!” Gabe yells through the wall, punctuating it with a loud thump that makes the windows rattle in the loose frames. “Shut the fuck up in there or do I gotta lock that skinny little motherfucker in the fucking basement again?”

 

Brendon flinches down under his blanket and Patrick sighs before calling back an apology. 

 

“We’ll get an apartment, Bren,” he reassures him and hopes against hope that it’s not just more smoke that he’s blowing up the kid’s ass. “Just… Try to stay out of his way, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed meeting our little rascal - isn't he a peach!
> 
> As always, feedback is always appreciated and if you fancy a chat you can find me on Tumblr - sn1tchesandtalkers.
> 
> It really is almost the weekend so make sure you're smiling!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey would you look at that? It's _actually_ Wednesday! I know I say this every single time and it's probably repetitive and dull but _thank you_ so much for taking the time to read, I really do appreciate it. Okay then, on with what you came here for...

“So, he took your wallet right out of your pocket?” Andy is clearly trying not to smirk as he sips his drink. He’s not trying very hard. If Pete didn’t love him he’d kick him in the nuts. “And you didn’t even notice?”

 

“In my defence-”

 

“Your honour,” Joe interrupts with a grin, blue eyes sparkling. “I’m a fucking sucker for cute-looking blondes and I thought maybe I was gonna get my balls licked.”

 

“Go to hell,” he snaps irritably, taking a few long swigs of beer before continuing. “And anyway, I got it back.”

 

“Let’s not pretend that was anything other than ridiculous good luck,” Andy points out. “So, did you get his number? This is going in my best man’s speech, swear to god. It’s gonna be such a fucking _cute_ story to tell your grandkids.”

 

“Come on, man,” Pete objects weakly. “He was just a kid.”

 

“You said he was eighteen,” Andy racks up the pool balls carefully. “I mean, you’ve done bigger age gaps, admittedly reversed but… It’s not _great_ but it’s not _illegal_ …”

 

“It might not be illegal, _Doctor_ Hurley,” Pete agrees. “But it’s unethical as shit. Would you fuck one of your patients? I’m his fucking attorney for fuck’s sake. ”

 

“State-appointed,” Joe points out in a way that makes Pete extremely uncomfortable, he still has no idea how Joe passed the ethics element of his exams. “Not like he’s _paying_ you to keep his pretty little ass out of jail.”

 

“I never said his ass was pretty,” Pete snaps. It was though, he’s forced to acknowledge, a hint of beautifully rounded cheeks under the jeans he was wearing, the kind of ass he’d love to bite at with teasing teeth. An ass he’d love to kiss across, skin as pale and soft as cream, to trace his tongue between those cheeks, to hear the kid moan his name like whispered prayers. 

 

He shakes his head with a sigh, thoughts like that had caused him to struggle through the interview at the precinct. He’d tried his level best not to stare at Patrick Vaughn, eighteen year old shoplifter and general pain in the ass. Patrick really hadn’t helped himself—he was obstructive, obnoxious, impossible to take coherent instruction from but Pete put on his game face and, with good luck and a decent custody officer, Patrick walked away with nothing more than a civil demand. He likes to think of himself as a realist and there’s no fucking _way_ Target are getting their four hundred dollar demand for a forty dollar hoodie that the kid returned anyway. God bless the state of Illinois.

 

“You never said it wasn’t,” Joe laughs lightly. “I call first round.”

 

“Me too,” Andy chimes in, snatching up a pool cue. “I’m gonna fucking _destroy_ you, Trohman.”

 

“Okay, that’s fine, I’ll just watch,” Pete sulks into his beer.

 

“You can plan your life with your boyfriend. Hey, how do you feel about a spring wedding?” Joe levels a lascivious wink in Pete’s direction. Pete considers beating him to death with his own pool cue but settles for muttering threatening insults darkly into his beer bottle. Joseph fucking Trohman—the man who may or may not have procured weed from clients who’d been charged with dealing—is not an appropriate man to sit in moral judgement. 

 

Besides, it’s not like Pete actually did anything wrong. He’d just admired the way Patrick had bitten on his lush, full lower lip with a scowl as Pete talked him through his options. He’d just casually thought about how that honey blonde hair might feel sliding between his fingers. He’d just put those thoughts together and imagined grabbing onto that soft-looking hair while Patrick sucked his cock, pictured the way wide blue eyes would look gazing up at him as pretty pink lips framed his prick. Simple mathematics.

 

Just thoughts, he reminds himself. No one can police his thoughts. Although he suspects he should police them himself because the kid is eighteen, a fucking criminal _and_ his client but Patrick has him enthralled, held under a beguiling spell of lush lips and blazing attitude. He guiltily recalls the way his fingers had tingled, electric shocks pulsing through them as the kid fumbled in his pocket and slammed his wallet down into his outstretched hand with a scowl, the merest brush of cool, dry skin against his own hot, damp palm enough to make him jump like he’d been stung.

 

Pete had become painfully aware as he sat next to him—whilst he was interviewed by an understanding police detective—of the rumbling of Patrick’s stomach, the way his jeans looked as though they hadn’t seen the inside of a washer for weeks, how painfully thin that denim jacket actually was. Patrick had scowled and shook his head with vicious vehemence when Pete asked if he wanted to call his parents. Over eighteen but just barely according to the ID he’d produced, Pete was concerned when he barrelled out of the station alone and disappeared into the crowds on the street.

 

He shouldn’t care, he reminds himself as he orders another round at the bar. Patrick’s just some dumb kid that tried to steal a crappy hoodie from a store that could have easily afforded to absorb the loss. He repeats that fact to himself as he proceeds to kick Joe’s ass at pool, continues to do so as he does the same to Andy, stoically ignoring their teasing.

 

Patrick isn’t his problem.

 

“You know what the real issue is, right?” Andy—apparently unwilling to take the hint and just let things lie—takes a swig of his Sprite and crunches on an ice cube, providing Pete with the perfect opportunity to interject.

 

“My friends are assholes?” He offers with a sugar-sweet smile.

 

“A comedian, ladies and gentlemen!” Joe exclaims, ducking as Pete throws the cue chalk at him.

 

“Seriously,” Andy swallows the shards of ice and, sadly, doesn’t choke on them. “You’ve been single for too long. You’re projecting all that frustration onto the easiest target—cute, pickpocketing twink—rather than finding yourself a healthy, adult relationship.”

 

“I thought you were training to be a _real_ doctor, not a fucking shrink,” he grouses irritably. “And you realise that’s easy for you to say, right? You’ve been with Meredith, what, three years? And _you,_ Trohman, you’re fucking _married.”_

 

“Why does that sound like an accusation?” Joe scratches his chin with a puzzled frown. “It’s not _my_ fault some hot chick couldn’t imagine life without me.”

 

“Oh _some_ hot chick?” Andy rolls his eyes. “Like _any_ of the many you had lining up would’ve been okay? Marie’d _love_ to hear that.”

 

Pete realises—with the 20/20 vision of hindsight—that he absolutely shouldn’t have used the word “cute” when he spoke about the kid to his friends. That’s the real issue. He stays sullenly silent as he mulls over Andy’s comments. It’s been a while since his last fuck, sure, even longer since his last relationship, months since there wasn’t a cold side of the bed but it’s ridiculous to imagine Patrick warming it. Eighteen, he reminds himself, Patrick’s _eighteen_. _He’s_ twenty-five and old enough to know better.

 

“I’m calling it a night,” he declares, draining his beer and reaching for his jacket.

 

“You leave early, you still have to come to WOD,” Andy informs him.

 

“You’d have made me go anyway,” Pete grumbles, slipping on his coat, Andy concedes with a shrug.

 

“Oh, come on,” Joe is the very image of heartfelt apologies with sincere blue eyes widened innocently. “You’re gonna take off? Jesus fucking christ dude, I was only kidding, since when are you so fucking sensitive?”

 

“Your terrible stand up routine has nothing to do with it,” Pete informs him crisply, winding his scarf around his neck. “I’ve got a fuck ton of work to catch up on. Joe, I’ll see you tomorrow, Hurley, I’ll see _you_ ass o’clock Saturday.”

 

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy his friends’ company, he reminds himself as he walks through the artificial illumination of a cold Chicago evening, he just much prefers it when one of them is on the receiving of an impromptu roast. Not for the first time, he wonders if maybe he should make some new, adult friends rather than spending all of his time with his college buddies who, it has to be noted, know him far too fucking well. Andy was his roommate from freshman year, a polite, bespectacled and softly-spoken pre-Med student with a penchant for blasting straight-edge hardcore music every night before Pete had a huge test. Somehow he made it through the four years of his undergrad without murdering him, assumed when he moved on to Law School and Andy to Med School—still within DePaul, of course—that he’d find some more reasonable friends.

 

Joe had run into him—literally _run into_ him—on the first morning of the first day, standing outside the lecture hall. He’d dragged the kid up from his ass and somehow hasn’t been able to shake him off for the past four years. But he loves them, he reminds himself, even if sometimes he could happily move to the other side of country and not tell either one of those bastards where he's gone.

 

He pushes intrusive thoughts of tow-haired boys to the back of his mind as he walks home and forces himself to think about anything other than pretty blue-green eyes as he showers and settles himself down with yet more paperwork. Work proves to be the best distraction so he continues until he’s exhausted, until the words crawl and dance across the pages then collapses into bed and waits for sleep to take him. And waits. And waits.

 

He huffs under the covers, staring up at the patterns cast onto the ceiling by the streetlight outside. He hasn’t closed the curtains properly, a shaft of orange light bisecting the faintly cracked stretch of slightly yellowed plaster. He frowns. A roguish voice whispers playfully at the edge of his subconscious, _bet Patrick could help you sleep_. He grumbles under his breath and drags the pillow over his head, tries to ignore the rise of his cock pressing hard and eager against his pajama pants.

 

It’s not weird, he tells himself as he slides his hand into his pants and grasps at his stiff dick, it’s just harmless fantasy. Just something to ease him over into sleep. His eyes flutter closed, it’s been _weeks_ since he’s done this, since he’s had the energy at the end of a long, stressful day. He plays his fingers softly from base to head and back again, shuddering at the sensation that crawls up his spine. It’s okay, he tells himself, it’s fine that there’s no one to help him out, it’s probably for the best anyway. But it would be nice if it was soft, pale fingers sliding around the dark, leaking column of his dick, if blue eyes were smirking at him from the other pillow. No, that won’t do, he can’t— _he can’t_ —he needs a safer fantasy.

 

He wonders, absently, how Patrick looks when he gets himself off.

 

He imagines those pale cheeks flush delicately, that he licks at those lush pink lips until they’re slick and shining. He pauses to slide his tongue against his palm then starts to stroke himself slow and lazy, lets the fantasy run away with him. He imagines Patrick makes the most delicious little moans as he touches himself, that he arches his hips up with desperate, burning need as he fucks into his own fist. He can picture the delicate sheen of sweat that might mist his brow, how that glorious honey blonde hair might slick and stick to it. He wonders if it would curl a little around his ears and the back of his neck, how it might feel to play his fingertips through it.

 

His thighs are trembling, his body tingling as he increases his pace and grip, bites hard at his lower lip. It feels illicit, thrillingly so, to conjure up these filthy fantasies, to imagine the kid sprawled across his bed as he works his cock. He wonders if Patrick would suck on a couple of fingers, slick them up nicely and pull up his knees exposing—he imagines—a pretty little pink pucker of an ass. He can imagine Patrick sliding those slim, pale fingers inside of himself while he jacks at his cock, the breathy sigh he might make. Yeah, he bets the kid makes fucking _beautiful_ little noises while he jerks himself off.

 

Patrick would get rougher, he decides, pulling at his dick until it’s flushed and leaking—oh god, how might those slick drops _taste_ —fucking himself harder and faster. He can visualise the kid’s jaw falling slack, his mouth delicious and kissable, open and pouting, lips flushed and damp. He’s tugging at himself furiously now, covers kicked off and bare chest heaving. He can imagine the way Patrick tenses right before he comes, each muscle pulled taut and a soft groan on his lips as thick spurts of come pulse from his cock, slicking down between his fingers, splashing over his stomach, begging to be cleaned by someone with a skilled and eager tongue.

 

Muscles pull tense in his stomach and groin, his body spasming and everything—every touch—becomes in an instant too much and nowhere close to enough. He wants—he needs—he can’t… Hand around his shaft, thumb swiping through the slick at the head, his vision blurring at the edges, peripherals lost to screaming nerve endings that roar— _yes, yes, YES!_ —chasing and driving electric shock jolts that dart from his gasping, greedy lungs, as quick and sure as oxygen, as bright and burning as blood. _Close so close oh fuck Patrick YES!_

 

A sharp grunt and a hot spill over his hand and pajama pants, a muted sigh and delicious throbbing in his groin. For a minute he lies still, feels his cock soften against his thigh, listens to his own quick, laboured breathing and tries not to consider the guilt that gathers like a storm in the quieter parts of his mind, the whispered accusations that slide cold fingers down his spine. He soothes himself with reason—when will he ever see the kid again? Harmless, victimless, nothing to be ashamed of, he’s a good person. He’s a _good_ person.

 

He sighs and kicks off his pants, cleans himself off with them then lets them drop over the side of the bed. It’s just his imagination, he reminds himself, trying his best to ignore the tight knot of guilt that sits heavy and weighted in his stomach. He hasn’t done anything wrong, hasn’t acted on the ridiculous impulse he felt in the police station to ask for the kid’s number. He just needs to sleep, to forget and start tomorrow afresh.

 

Sleep comes finally, but not without a restless, uneasy feeling that leaves him tossing and turning and, by the time his alarm sounds, he feels no more rested than before he went to bed.

 

Work drags for him the next morning, orders and statements and court files passing his desk with varying levels of urgency but nothing that, as a reasonably competent lawyer, is truly capable of holding his attention and distracting his thoughts. He’s becoming obsessed, can feel it in his veins like mania, like sweet, all-consuming madness that flows through his veins and kick-starts the bitter flutter of his scarred heart.

 

By lunchtime he’s tense and tight, throbbing with unspent energy as he snatches on his jacket and heads for the relative calm of nearby Millennium Park and walks, no real interest in where his feet take him, just needing the quiet calm of an open space and crisp, cold air in his lungs. There’s comfort in focussing on nothing more than pulling air into his lungs, feeling the asphalt under his feet. His mind can drift, empty and quiet for the first time in twenty-four hours.

 

His feet follow the mellow sound of an acoustic guitar and rich, soulful voice. He strains his ears as he approaches, tries to recognise the song that hovers tantalisingly in the air as thick and sweet as woodsmoke as he draws closer. It hits him the moment he rounds the corner— _Hallelujah._

 

In the same moment, the same split second of time, he realises he knows the musician. His aimless wandering has brought him up directly behind him but he recognises the dirty blonde hair, the denim jacket and jeans. There’s a trucker hat jammed low on his head today and a battered guitar—held together with duct tape and sheer force of will—cradled in his arms. But his voice, his fucking _voice_. Pete is frozen, rooted to the spot as he listens to the song in its entirety, each heartfelt word, each gently crooned syllable like a lover’s touch, like kisses stolen in secret moments and quiet places. 

 

He likes the way Patrick kicks out his left leg as he sings, he decides absently, likes the way he hunches up his shoulders and tucks himself down into them.

 

He ponders how Patrick got a permit and if he knows he’s violating it, he’s pretty sure buskers aren’t allowed in Millennium Park. He immediately wonders why the fuck he’s thinking about something so fucking _banal_ as entertainment permits whilst this golden voiced, pretty faced kid serenades the lunch break office workers of Chicago like he was made to do nothing else. Pete lowers himself subtly onto a bench just behind and to the left of Patrick and listens to him play a few more. Patrick has a fucking incredible voice, he decides, as rich and decadent as heavy cream. He’s enraptured by his rendition of _Baby Won’t You Please Come Home,_ enchanted by _Almost Like Being In Love_ and grinning insanely to himself over _Stand By Me._

 

He spends the best part of fifteen minutes watching and listening in silence, heart hammering as he catches glimpses of perfectly plump lips, keen blue eyes and soft, smooth skin. He knows it’s a terrible idea—probably the worst idea he’s ever had and he did some remarkably stupid shit as a teen—but he can’t seem to help himself as he slips his phone out of his pocket and subtly starts recording. It’s just the voice, he tells himself, he just wants to be able to listen to it again.

 

He stops the recording as Patrick pauses to poke through the cap at his feet and shoves his phone deep into his pocket, fingers drifting absently over the leather of his wallet. _Fool me once…_ He has no fucking idea what he’s doing as he pushes himself to his feet and moves to stand in front of Patrick, meeting his gaze with a slow smile.

 

“You take requests?” He asks, perversely thrilled by the spark of recognition in Patrick’s eyes. The kid looks wary, shakes his head silently and rolls his eyes as Pete pulls out a twenty dollar bill and holds it up between two fingers like this is front row at the all you can eat lunchtime buffet of a second rate strip club. “What if I just said play something fun?”

 

Patrick seems to consider this for a moment as he watches him place the note carefully into the knit cap that he recognises from the police precinct, tucking it neatly amongst the selection of small change and dollar bills. He straightens and takes half a step back, watching a small smirk play across Patrick’s face. For a moment he thinks he might just grab his stuff and leave but the smirk widens into a grin as he plays a sharp funk riff, punctuated with a soft, sexy little grunt that shivers on soundwaves straight to Pete’s cock.

 

He recognises the song immediately although he’s never heard it acoustic, watches Patrick’s fingers dance across the frets as he plays the introduction with effortless grace. He _watches_ and tries not to think about those fingers on his body like confessions to come, like sins and needs. He watches him suck in a breath and close his eyes briefly before his voice rings out as clear and bright as blazing summer sunlight.

 

_“You don’t have to be beautiful, to turn me on, I just need your body baby, from dusk til dawn, you don’t need experience, to turn me out, you just leave it all up to me, I’m gonna show you what it’s all about.”_

 

Those fucking incredible eyes are locked teasingly on his as Patrick rolls his hips slowly behind his guitar. He can feel his cheeks heating as he stares, unable to tear his gaze away as Patrick sings in a bright, piercing falsetto. Patrick’s fucking _captivating,_ Pete’s completely hypnotised—adrift with no lifebelt—as the kid moves his body sensually in time to the music, a flirtatious little smile on his lips as he reaches up and knocks the peak of his cap down over his brow, _“You don’t have to be rich, to be my girl, you don’t have to be cool, to rule my world...”_

 

Pete licks his lips as his heart hammers a messy beat against his ribs.

 

 _“You got to not talk dirty, baby, if you wanna impress me, you can’t be too flirty, daddy, I know how to undress me,”_ Pete swallows heavily, notices the subtly twisted lyrics even if no one else does and fuck does he want to undress him, wants to take him apart in all the best possible ways. He wants him undone and unthinking, mindlessly wanting and needing, reduced to nothing but groans and gasps like prayers for forgiveness. And Patrick _knows_ , his gaze is bright with challenge; a challenge to look away, a challenge not to, a challenge he can’t quite fathom but that stirs something inside of him that curls around him, dangerous and heated.

 

 _“I want to be your fantasy, maybe you could be mine,”_ Patrick sings, punctuating the line with a deliberate lick of his lips, eyes still on Pete and fuck he can feel himself getting hard as he thinks terrible thoughts about that soft, pink tongue. _“You just leave it all up to me, we could have a good time.”_

 

Patrick is grinding up against the back of the guitar as he sings and it’s so fucking blatant, so overtly _sexual_ that he’s amazed no one else can see it. He doesn’t understand how no one else seems to notice the way Patrick’s face twists up in a way he can only imagine is an exact replica of the expression that flutters across his features as he comes. He can’t comprehend that no one else is affected by the breathy little moans he weaves in amongst the lyrics that speak of filth and sweat and come. He shoves his hands deep into his coat pockets, thankful his wool overcoat falls to his mid-thigh so that there’s no risk of passersby—or _Patrick_ , hopefully—noticing that he’s hard enough to drill a fucking board. He’s convinced it must be obvious in his burning cheeks, in the way his eyes drift down to Patrick’s sinful hips again and again. He’s barely conscious of others dropping money into the cap but Patrick doesn’t seem to be aware of them either, apparently focussed on being the star of a private show for an audience of one.

 

Pete realises in some deep, lost recess of his mind that isn’t focussed entirely on lush lips and wicked hips that they’re approaching the finale and wonders if Patrick has the balls to truly go for it. He finds himself impressed but unsurprised when he absolutely does, reaching for that strained falsetto, hips still working to the beat, foot stamping a little in time.

 

 _“Ain’t no particular sign I’m more compatible with, I just want your extra time and your,”_ he breaks off to play the final riff, brings his heels together sharply as he finishes with a flourish and blows Pete a seductive, pouting kiss from plump, fuckable lips. _“Kiss.”_

 

Pete barely has the time to recover from that little display before Patrick stoops smoothly and snatches up his cash-filled cap, shoving it down into his pocket as he slings his guitar around his back and, with a bright grin and exaggerated wink at Pete, he takes off through the park at a swift jog.

 

For a moment Pete just stares at the space he’d inhabited as though he can summon him back through sheer force of will. He’s still painfully hard as he glances over his shoulder and sees the uniformed Chicago PD officers approaching. No permit, he reminds himself, no buskers allowed in Millennium Park. He huffs out a long breath, cheeks blown, eyes wide and wonders what the actual fuck just happened.

 

He looks back in the direction Patrick took off, there’s no sign of him, he’s melted into the crowds like a ghost. Dazed and thoroughly confused, Pete turns back towards his office. Visions of pretty boys dance in his head, beautiful boys with clever hips and talented fingers and knowing smiles that glow warm with promise just for him. 

 

Patrick Vaughn is a goddamn devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Kiss_ is pretty much my favourite Prince song ever. Just in case you were wondering, and it sounds absolutely incredible acoustic - go have a flick through YouTube and see what I mean. 
> 
> So, how are we enjoying it so far? I have to say I'm really enjoying writing it and next week... Oh boy, _next week_... Well, guess you'll just have to wait and see! If you like it, hit the kudos button or send me a comment. I'm also available for longwinded rambling on Tumblr - sn1tchesandtalkers.
> 
> Until next time!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Slightly longer chapter this week - I hope you'll think it's worth it. Thank you so much to the ever-wonderful Flames_and_Jade for offering valuable feedback with this chapter, it's absolutely appreciated!

“You need a ride, Pelé?” Joe asks as they head to the parking lot of the indoor soccer centre.

 

“Nah,” Pete shakes his head. “Just gonna walk it. Need to clear my head.”

 

“Still thinking about your _boyfriend,”_ Joe singsongs suggestively. Pete scowls.

 

“What are we, fucking _eight?”_ He snaps—this has gone on all fucking night, it’s not fucking _funny._ He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and checks for the reassuring bulk of his wallet before turning smartly on his heel. “Goodbye, Joe.”

 

“Come on, man, it’s just a jo-”

 

 _“Goodbye,_ Joe,” he cuts him off, striding off across the parking lot without a backward glance.

 

As he heads through the city streets he reminds himself that Joe isn’t an asshole, he’s just teasing and in any other set of circumstances he wouldn’t allow it to irritate him. But Patrick is under his skin; an itch he can’t scratch, a song that he can’t recall the chorus and he has no idea _why_. Sure, he’s a good looking kid with those wide blue eyes and that soft, plump lower lip but it’s not like he’s the best looking guy Pete’s ever been with and that’s before he factors in his criminal tendencies. He’s being ridiculous, there’s close to three million people living in the city, he’s never going to see the kid again.

 

He’s struck by a sense of foreboding inevitability as he walks the familiar streets, his kit bag slung over his shoulder and his breath hanging in the air like fog over the lake. It's bitterly cold, the sidewalks and parked cars glittering hard as diamonds with frost and what little of his skin is exposed to the night air stings with it. He reaches up to pull his hat a little lower, turn his scarf up a little higher to meet it and trap some scant warmth between the fabric and his skin.

 

He _thinks_ he sees him first. Just a brief moment where blonde hair catches the fluorescent glow of the streetlight he stands under and he argues with himself that it can’t be real, it must be some mirage conjured up by his overtired brain to show him what a pathetic loner he actually is. Patrick’s hat is pulled low, the peak casting interesting shadows across the planes of his face and he looks all at once breathtakingly beautiful and heartbreakingly young. He stands with a group of other teens—seven? Eight of them?—but they don’t look like the usual trouble-makers drinking cheap liquor and talking shit to one another. These kids look tired and Pete realises in an instant exactly what they are and what they're doing.

 

That instant is all it takes for Patrick to glance over, for their eyes to lock across fifty feet of asphalt and hopelessness. Recognition flickers in his eyes even from a distance and for a heart-pounding second Pete worries he'll bolt. But he doesn't, just raises his chin in that defiant way he has and lounges back against the wall like he hasn't a single care in the fucking world. Pete knows he should keep walking, that he should turn his gaze back towards his apartment and put as much distance between them as he can. His feet have a different idea entirely and carry him across the road and to Patrick's side apparently without his brain being consulted on the situation.

 

“Hey,” he greets him. “Patrick, isn't it?”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick mutters cautiously.

 

“I'm Pete,” he offers, even though Patrick didn't ask. He holds out his hand like formalities are in any way appropriate at this point, lets it fall uselessly to his side as Patrick stares at him with disdain. “I was… well… You remember.”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick repeats, shivering slightly in his thin jacket. His cheeks and ears aren't flushed pink any more and that worries Pete. He's deathly pale, skin like chilled marble stretched over his cheekbones.

 

“What're you doing out here?” He asks softly. He knows the answer and the look Patrick gives him—eyebrow slightly arched, lips tight—is a kick to the stomach. “Look, do you want to go and… get something to eat? You look sort of hungry and fucking freezing… Maybe some hot coffee?”

 

“I'm fucking _working,_ dude,” Patrick hisses at him, shoving his hands down into his pockets with a fierce scowl. Pete takes half a step back. “I'm not a fucking charity case so either pay me to suck your dick or back the fuck off. You're gonna scare guys away, you look like a fucking _cop.”_

 

Pete stares at Patrick for a moment, eyes wide with shock at the bald way he'd phrased it— _pay me to suck your dick_ —like it didn't even fucking matter. He should go, he knows that, should just carry on walking and leave the kid to do whatever it is he needs to do. But he can't stop thinking about him, can't shift the intrusive thoughts that creep into the corners of his day. It’s been three days since he saw him in the park and he’s jerked himself raw thinking about the way his hips moved against his guitar, the plump rose petal flush of his pout as he blew that kiss. _I just need your body baby from dusk til dawn._

 

No, that’s not it, he’s not thinking about that. He can't _leave_ him out here, it's fucking _freezing_ and he's still wearing that same thin denim jacket and nothing but a cotton t-shirt underneath.

 

“You okay, man?” One of the other kids calls from the pack. Pete looks at them warily and reminds himself that he's horribly outnumbered.

 

“It's fine, Will,” Patrick sighs before scowling at Pete once more. “He's just a fucking timewaster, I'll-”

 

“Okay, fine,” Pete mutters, grabbing Patrick's arm. “You win.”

 

“Get—the—fuck— _off_ —me,” Patrick spits out each word like it tastes bad, snatching back his arm.

 

“So you're gonna suck my cock but I can't touch your arm?” Pete snaps. Patrick's eyes narrow in silent question and Pete falters, he has no idea how to instruct a prostitute. _Instruct_. He's such a fucking lawyer. “Yeah. I want you to come back to my place.”

 

Patrick nods slowly and bites his lower lip, “You got a car or…? I don't like walking too far from here.”

 

“My place is nearby,” Pete assures him, turning on his heel and picking his route back up, forcing himself not to look back and check that Patrick is following. He hears his footsteps, hurrying along to keep up with his own longer strides.

 

They walk in silence, Pete can feel the anger radiating from Patrick—a toxic, palpable force—and once again asks himself what the fuck he's doing picking up some eighteen year old off the street and taking him home. He's not going to have sex with him, he reminds himself, he's just going to get him warmed up, get some food into him and pay him for his charming company and scintillating conversation.

 

He keys in the entry code for his building and leads the way up the stairs to his front door. They haven't spoken a word to one another since they left Patrick's spot on the street.

 

“Just come on in,” Pete bustles ahead like his grandma has dropped by without calling, picking up dirty laundry from the floor, shoving last night’s dishes into the sink and flipping over work papers so Patrick can’t see them. The kid has sharp eyes and a keen mind, Pete doesn’t doubt for a second he could find a way to use any information he saw. “Do you… Want a drink?”

 

Patrick shakes his head, loitering by the couch as he looks around the room. Probably working out what he can lift without Pete noticing. It’s a thought that makes him feel unkind even though he’s forced to recognise the truth in it.

 

“Nice place,” Patrick observes. Pete looks at it through the kid’s eyes and supposes it is. It’s warm and dry and he can watch pretty much anything he could care to think of on his top end cable package. There’s food in the fridge and hot water in the tank and he supposes he _is_ sort of… well, _lucky_ really.

 

“Thanks,” Pete falters awkwardly. “I haven't had dinner yet, I was just gonna make some pasta or something. You want some?”

 

“I'm not here to eat pasta,” it's like a switch has flicked in Patrick, the sullen, angry kid replaced with something seductive and dangerous as he runs his tongue deliberately over his lower lip and crosses the room slowly to Pete. “So, what do you want? What’s got your dick hard tonight, hmm?”

 

“I… Uh…” Pete stammers and backs up away from Patrick until the small of his back collides painfully with the kitchen counter. “You looked like you could use a night off. I just thought…”

 

“I told you,” Patrick snarls, blue eyes alight with fury as the switch seems to slam back off. He wonders if he could reach the drawer with the knives if Patrick were to try anything. “I don't _want_ your fucking pity. Do you want to fuck me or not?”

 

A hard jolt runs through Pete as though he's touched a live wire. He wants to fuck the kid so badly, knows he's half hard at the merest suggestion of it. He feels sick, reminds himself that Patrick's barely an adult, a petty criminal and his _fucking client_. It doesn’t change a damn thing, he still wants to slide his cock between those beautiful lips, to feel Patrick’s thighs around his hips as he grinds into him. But he _won’t._

 

“What difference does it make?” Pete snaps. “D’you want a stranger’s cock in your mouth that fucking bad?”

 

Patrick winces back from him for a moment, desperation flashing across his face. Pete presses his advantage, just like he would on the soccer pitch, just like he would in court.

 

“Is that it? I'm offering you the same fucking money just to sit here and have a hot meal, why won't you-”

 

“You want to pay someone to talk to you, get a fucking therapist,” Patrick cuts him off, his face twisted into a bitter snarl. “You've wasted enough of my time. I need to get back and _earn_ some cash.”

 

He turns to leave, his hand on the door as Pete battles with himself to let the kid go, to force him to stay, to take him up on his offer. He's fucking beautiful, so breathtakingly pretty and Pete wants… Oh, how Pete _wants_. But most of all, he wants Patrick _safe,_ wants him someplace warm where no one can hurt him and—with a cold drag of desperation in the pit of his stomach—he knows that means he needs to keep him here. In the apartment. By any means necessary. 

 

It could be worse, he tells himself, he’s a good man—a _kind_ man—he’d never hurt him. He assures himself this way is better than the other guys, the _real_ johns, the ones that would be too rough, the ones that would push him over the stained leatherette upholstery of their cheap cars, the ones that would shove him to his knees in dirty alleys and have him choke and gag and splutter for them. He has a bed, soft and warm, a place he can imagine Patrick sprawled, flushed and panting. And after all, he’s just pretending, just playing at this to keep the kid safe for as long as he can.

 

“Wait!” Patrick turns and looks back at him, clearly pissed off. He’s never actually done anything like this before, isn’t sure how to approach it. “So we never actually… Uh… We didn’t talk about the… The cost.”

 

“What? Oh, yeah…” Patrick trails off for a moment, hand dropping from the door to his side, and stares down at his shoes. God, he looks so fucking young, lower lip nipped tight between his teeth, skin over his cheekbones lightly flushed. “I guess… Well… I mean I guess it depends on what you want to do, right?”

 

 _I want to tie you down and fucking ruin you, you beautiful, arrogant little shit._ Pete thinks, blood fizzing with wicked intent, “A blowjob?” 

 

“Yeah,” Patrick nods, confidence restored as he nods with something heartbreakingly close to enthusiasm. “I can suck your dick. That’ll be like, forty.”

 

“No,” Pete shakes his head, voice trailing into a ragged whisper as he drinks in the pretty kid stood in front of him. “No, I want to suck yours. Then I want to fuck you.”

 

It’s… gratifying really, the way Patrick’s eyes spring wide for a moment. Pete can feel himself getting harder, his cock straining against the zipper of his pants as he watches Patrick process it, watches him think it through before nodding briefly.

 

“Okay so that’ll be a straight hundred. Hundred twenty if you want me to come in your mouth.”

 

Pete makes an irritated noise at the back of his throat, shrugging off his coat and suit jacket and hanging them up, rolling up his shirtsleeves and loosening the top button of his shirt. He catches sight of himself in the mirror by the front door, hair falling into dark eyes that glitter with lust and shame. Disgusting, he tells himself, dirty, pathetic little man taking advantage of a vulnerable kid. But Patrick seems anything but vulnerable as he stares at Pete defiantly from across the room, voice firm and steady when he speaks.

 

“So, do you want me to stand up or-”

 

“The bedroom’s through there,” Pete points towards the bed. “Go lay on the bed, just... Take off your shoes.”

 

Patrick even manages to make removing his chucks look sarcastic, toeing them off with exaggerated care and nudging them to one side, half tucked under the couch. He slings his jacket and hat over the cushions and turns to Pete with his hands once again tucked into his pockets.

 

“You want me to take a shower first?” He asks idly, Pete feels a shudder of desire run down his spine. Patrick looks _exactly_ the kind of dirty that he likes, he’d guess it’s been a couple of days since he last showered, jeans that haven’t been washed for _weeks_ , fuck he’ll smell so fucking _good._

 

“No,” Pete shakes his head, hears the edge of lust in his voice that’s hard enough to cut. “Just go lay down.”

 

Patrick does as he’s told, sauntering ahead of Pete into the bedroom and leaning back on the bed, hands clasped behind his head, legs spread invitingly. His cock is on display through the denim, the outline of it traceable through the rough fabric and for a moment Pete considers letting the kid fuck him because that’s a cock that would be going to waste doing anything else.

 

“You want me to…?” Patrick trails off, reaching for the button of his jeans, Pete knocks his hand to the side.

 

“Just stop _talking,”_ he mutters, climbing on the bed and kneeling between Patrick’s legs. “I’ll let you know if there’s something you need to do.”

 

He pops the button of Patrick’s jeans, eases down the zipper and takes a moment to explore the triangle of pale skin he’s exposed, trailing his fingertip through the copper blonde hair there. Patrick closes his eyes and Pete could tell himself it’s pleasure but he knows the truth. He knows Patrick just doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see what he’s being paid to let some creep do to his body. Pete finds he cares less about this revelation than he thought he might.

 

He pulls down Patrick’s jeans, drops them over the side of the bed and runs his hands lightly over the heavy cream softness of his thighs, just lightly dusted with dark blonde hair, “Take off your shirt.”

 

Patrick complies, lies back against the pillows in nothing but his shorts and socks. Pete leans down and presses his nose to the crease of Patrick’s underarm, heaving in the scent with a deep, resonating groan. There’s sweat, yes of course, cheap body spray and something more—skin, sweet male musk and pheromones, sharp and intoxicating. It smells like being seventeen and fumbled blowjobs in the locker room after soccer practice. He sits back on his heels and takes a minute just to look—he’s paying for it after all—to drink in the body that he’s ached to touch since the first moment he laid eyes on him. He runs a hand softly over Patrick’s chest, fingertips grazing over the light scattering of honey blonde hair and a tight, pink nipple, lower still and through the coarse trail from his navel and down to the waistband of his close-fitting shorts. 

 

“Is it okay if I…” He leans over Patrick, cups his face in both hands, fingertips soft against the rough brush of coppery blonde sideburns, and brings his mouth tantalisingly close.

 

“You want to kiss me?” Patrick raises an eyebrow, his breath ghosting over Pete’s lips, softly scented with peppermint gum. “I’m not Julia fucking Roberts, this is the full fucking _boyfriend_ experience, you can kiss me if you want.”

 

Pete wants. So Pete does, a soft moan slipping past his lips as he tastes that exquisite mouth for the first time. Patrick’s mouth is warm and wet, his lips delightfully soft and his tongue gentle and inquisitive against Pete’s. He fumbles with Patrick’s shorts, sliding a shaking hand into the soft cotton, fingers brushing against softer skin, the hot, hard length of his cock, the tip already slick and leaking. If he glances down, he knows there’ll be a damp patch on the pale grey fabric tented over the impressively thick column of Patrick’s prick. Fuck, he wants to taste him, wants to suck him down his throat until he can barely breathe, until he moans and sweats for him, until he comes slamming his hips up into his mouth. 

 

But he isn’t stupid and he doesn’t particularly want herpes so instead he reaches into his nightstand and extracts a condom. He tucks the foil between his teeth as he tugs down Patrick's shorts, sliding them under the base of his cock as he sits back on his heels and takes a moment to admire the kid. He's well hung, his cock blush pink and thick, the neat smudge of a freckle on the head, just to the left of the slit. He wants to taste, wants so badly to tease the tip of his tongue against that delicate spot of colour, a growl of restraint rumbling from his chest as he grabs at the condom once more, ripping open the foil and rolling it down Patrick’s pretty pink cock. 

 

He drags Patrick’s shorts down fully and slips off the bed, heart beating a tattoo against his ribs as he carefully removes his own shoes, socks, pants and shorts, folding the pants neatly and draping them over the chair in the corner. He turns back to Patrick, watches those storm-wave eyes assessing his cock, poking stiff and dark through the plackets of his dress shirt.

 

“If I'm doing this your way,” he murmurs. “You need to meet me halfway. You have to answer some questions for me, okay?”

 

“Fucking lawyers,” Patrick mutters under his breath. But he nods.

 

“Why do you do this?” He asks moving back onto the bed and kneeling between Patrick's legs.

 

“Because I fucking _love_ cock,” Patrick drawls, propped half on his elbows, lips curled into a smirk.

 

“You told me you'd answer,” he reminds him, running his hands up Patrick's legs from his ankles to his hips. Patrick's still wearing his socks, he notices. He thinks he might be sort of into it.

 

“I _did_ answer,” Patrick points out, he doesn't waver as he speaks, even as Pete leans down and presses his nose under his cock—right down where his shaft joins the soft skin of his balls, just below the cuff of the condom—and pulls in another drag of his raw scent. Fucking _incredible_. He sags a little as he takes it in, plays his tongue lightly through the coarse, coppery curls before looking up. Patrick is still staring at him impassively, one hand now tucked behind his head as he reclines back, propped up a little by the pillows, the other idly playing with the comforter. When he meets Pete's gaze he continues with a composed, quiet dignity that shatters Pete’s heart. “You didn't say anything about answering honestly.”

 

“Okay, smartass,” he takes his weight onto his hands, braced either side of Patrick's hips, his mouth hovering over the latex covered head of his cock. Patrick shivers, a long, slow shudder that runs the full length of his body. “Honest answer this time.”

 

“Once upon a time I needed some cash,” Patrick mutters, barely faltering as Pete slides his lips over the tip of his cock. “Turns out sucking dick is a great way to separate guys like you from their money. Who knew?”

 

 _Guys like you._ That feels unfair, he didn’t actually _want_ to fuck him—well, that’s not strictly true, he _wanted_ to but he'd been perfectly happy to suppress that desire—they could have been eating puttanesca right now but instead he's sucking his cock. He frowns up at him, taking a couple more inches into his mouth, tongue sliding down the underside, curling back up to work around the head. Patrick's eyes flutter closed for the briefest moment, the skin of his eyelids so pale it's almost translucent, he could trace the delicately threaded web of soft blue veins with his fingertips. Patrick’s lips part, just for a second, a soft ghost of a sigh slipping over them and into the quiet of the room but then he gathers himself, opens his eyes and stares off at the wall.

 

“Are you even into guys?” He asks, sliding his mouth off Patrick's cock to speak, slipping back down as soon as he's finished.

 

“What difference does it make to you?” The question itself could be aggressive, could be delivered with Patrick's usual brand of cold, hard sharpness that cuts into him like the the winter wind. But instead it's soft, curious, like Patrick can't understand why he would give a fuck. He glances up and meets his eyes, shrugs in a way he hopes suggests _humour me_ and not just indifference. Patrick sighs, lightly touches Pete's cheek. “Okay, fine. Yes, I'm gay. It made the career choice… easier.”

 

Pete doubts that. It's impossible to relate his teen experimentation with guys from high school to this kid selling himself to whichever guys want access to a warm, tight hole. But he nods, slides his mouth down further, swirls his tongue as he goes and sucks deep and hard. Patrick grunts, a soft noise in the back of his throat but his face doesn't alter; disinterested, bored. Pete can change that, he's sure of it.

 

“So when did you start doing this?” He slides his mouth off Patrick's shaft once more as he speaks, dips back down again and takes him in deep, feels him nudge the back of his throat.

 

“Fifty dollars an answer,” Patrick mutters defiantly, face flushing with anger when Pete simply nods and shrugs, a delicious little thrill of victory dancing down his spine as Patrick groans, rolls his head back against the pillows and growls through clenched teeth when he pulls off. “Oh, fuck you…”

 

“You named your price and I agreed,” he raises his shoulders in a shrug. “Just a transaction, right? So, for fifty bucks, how long have you been doing this?”

 

He grabs Patrick's knees and pushes them up towards his chest, dipping his head to flick his tongue against his perineum. He can taste the chemical tang of baby wipes—at odds with the smell of sweat, dirty denim and boy that lingers there—and wonders if another tongue, other fingers, another cock have dragged against him already tonight. Patrick bites his lip hard—hard enough for it to turn white under the pressure of his teeth—twists his fingers into the comforter in an effort not to make a sound as Pete flicks his tongue lower, just a brief lap before he looks up with undisguised expectation.

 

“Six months,” he grits out through clenched teeth. Pete smiles against his skin, let's his fingers press against the tight pucker of Patrick's ass. “It'll cost you to finger me…”

 

He rests both hands gently against Patrick's hips, admires the contrast of their skin tones, toffee against cream. He groans quietly as he wonders how the neatly trimmed black curls around the root of his cock might look next to the honey blonde of Patrick's when he's pressed flush inside of him. The thought has him working Patrick's cock harder and faster, his hand wrapped around the base and twisting loosely, sucking and rolling his tongue against the rest as drool runs down his chin, over his fingers.

 

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes, the hand that was behind his head now sliding up to grasp at the headboard as he writhes towards Pete's mouth. Pete grins up at him, knows the gesture is disfigured and stretched around the thick mouthful of cock he's working with but it'll be there in his eyes, creased at the corners, twinkling with bright expectation. Patrick tries to scowl but Pete is too quick as he drags the pad of his thumb over the sensitive, twitching tightness of his hole, leaving him slack-jawed and breathless.

 

“Why are you doing _this_ when you sing like _that?”_

 

Patrick's face is momentarily bewildered, if it's the fact that Pete's no longer sucking his cock or that he's monumentally stupid for asking such a question, he's just not sure.

 

“I made… fuck… thirty-nine dollars busking _all day,”_ he chews frantically at his lip. “I'm gonna make two hun- _shit_ … two hundred from you in a couple hours at most. Oh god...”

 

He might be a whore, he might be an arrogant little shit with a chip on his shoulder but he's still eighteen and Pete knows he gives good head. He purses his lips, lets a thick trickle of saliva roll between them and into the cleft of Patrick's ass.

 

“Oh god, y-yeah,” Patrick stammers as he gently works his thumb inside of him, probes lightly and… “Fuck, _yes,_ right fucking there!”

 

The kid’s close, twisting and sweating, cock twitching in Pete's mouth. He weighs his options quickly; let him come, watch that pretty full-lipped face twist in ecstasy, fuck him deep and hard when he's loose and relaxed. Or pull off, slide inside him when he's still hard and aching, feel that pretty little ass clench around him as he comes. No contest. He pulls back, lets Patrick’s cock slip from between his lips and grins up at him. Patrick glares back at him, all fire and fury in blazing blue eyes, attitude restored in moments.

 

“I told you it’d be extra to finger me,” Patrick snaps. “You owe me another twenty.”

 

“I'm prepping you,” Pete murmurs. “I don't know who you usually fuck-” he’s interrupted by a derisive snort and he supposes Patrick probably doesn't know who they are either, “-but I don't want to hurt you. Do you have lube?”

 

“Just use spit,” Patrick mutters. “It'll be fine.”

 

Pete closes his eyes very tightly and drags in a deep breath to try and keep control of his temper, is this kid fucking _kidding_ him?

 

“Spit?” He snarls, eyes focussing furiously on Patrick’s who glares right back, hostile and defiant. “I could be _anyone,_ I could have _anything_ and you want me to spit on your fucking asshole before I put my dick in there? And doesn’t that fucking _hurt?_ Either you don’t give a fuck or you’re really fucking stupid, which is it?”

 

“Dude, to be fair you fucking _licked_ my ass,” Patrick drawls with a sarcastic smile. “I figured you were cool with it…”

 

The only response he can think of is a sadly-unsatisfying exasperated noise as he roots through his nightstand for a bottle of lube, flips off the cap and pours a liberal slick over his fingers. He muses on Patrick’s comment—has anyone done that for him before? That’s _interesting_ … That has _possibilities_ … He rises to his knees between Patrick's thighs, presses his hand down between his legs, nudges his fingertips against the tight pucker of his ass and-

 

“Can I, like… Would you mind fucking me from behind?”

 

For a moment, just the briefest few seconds, Pete is irritated. No, he's furious. He's paying this jumped-up little shit—he's not sure but he thinks the running total is somewhere north of two hundred fucking dollars—and he doesn't appreciate being told he can't look at what he's paid for. It takes another two seconds for the guilt to catch up, the searing shock that knocks the breath out of him at how easy it is to become a _john,_ to see the kid as nothing but a commodity and he feels sick with it, his breath catching in his throat as he looks down at Patrick's uncomfortable expression, the tightness in his jaw. _Of course_ he doesn't want to look at Pete while he's inside of him. He nods numbly, sits back as Patrick moves onto his hands and knees, legs spread like an invitation. He unbuttons his shirt and sends it tumbling to the floor, aching with the need to feel smooth bare skin against his own. 

 

Patrick is still wearing his socks. He runs his hands absently over his feet, feels the warmth of his skin through the cotton. He's never paid someone for sex before but he's pretty sure the kid is fucking _terrible_ at whoring.

 

He adds more lube to his fingers, slides one in gently, feels Patrick shudder and clench around him. He adds a second and fucks him with them slowly, rolling his wrist in a teasing circle, curling them to catch his prostate, “Another?”

 

“If you want,” Patrick mutters, voice devoid of any emotion, face pressed down into folded arms. Pete _does_ want, presses another inside and marvels at the kid so beautifully on display for him all stretched out around his fingers. He’s three knuckles deep in the tight heat of him, aching for more, desperate to push and press and find out more, discover everything there is to know, each reaction, each gasp and groan, he’s greedy for them, _hungry_ for them.

 

“Condoms?” He prompts with a desperate breath. He presses his fingers as deep as they'll go, biting off a groan at the tight clench he receives in response. He has his own, of course he does, but he’s annoyed Patrick hasn’t suggested them, irritated he needs to remind him. Patrick's breath hitches at the back of his throat, a whisper of a sound that makes Pete's chest tighten.

 

“Yeah…” Patrick pauses for a moment, voice thick and slurred and far away, like he’s drifting back, his body shuddering with a heaved breath that seems to focus him, sharpens his words as he continues. “My jacket.”

 

Pete eases his fingers free, sits back on his heels and watches Patrick climb from the bed. He pads back into the living room and rummages for a moment, returns with a small square of foil that he hands over with another defiant glare as his eyes flick over Pete’s body blatantly.

 

“Nice tats.” He doesn't actually add the word _”asshole,”_ but Pete hears it clearly enough.

 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, childishly embarrassed that Patrick clearly doesn't approve of his ink. Why should he care? He realises that's a sentiment he should have applied before he picked the kid up and brought him back to his apartment.

 

Patrick slips back onto the bed and onto all fours once more, holds his position as Pete fumbles with the condom like he's fifteen and just working them out. He adds a slick of lube to his cock, presses the head to Patrick's ass and slowly, carefully, begins to push inside of him. He wants to feel guilty, wants his dick to soften and shrink because that would prove he's not a terrible human being, that he can't bring himself to fuck a vulnerable teen for money.

 

His dick has no such scruples, the kid’s body is a fucking delight; tight and hot, clenching exquisitely around him as, shuddering, he sinks inside of him. He grips Patrick's hips like they’re the only thing anchoring him to the bed, flexes his fingers against the soft, warm skin and feels himself bottom out, his hips flush with those deliciously rounded cheeks. _Next time_ he'll get him to shower, he promises himself, utterly delirious with the thrill of it, _next time_ he'll eat him out until he begs for his cock. _Next time, next time, next time_ … He’s drunk on the thrill of it, brain buzzing bright and glowing with the impossible beauty of suggestion, of things that could be, might be, _will be_. He's too far gone to worry that he's planning a next time, there'll be time enough for guilt later, for now he’s soaring, weightless and flying on the charge of lust and need that beats through him like a bassline.

 

He starts to thrust, slow and even, rolling his hips. He's a good fuck, he knows he is, he can make Patrick moan, make him cry out, make him come. He wants Patrick to enjoy it, to take away the memory of a night where someone treated him kindly—he has a fucking rescuer complex and he knows it. He gropes for the condom on Patrick's prick, tugging it off and throwing it over the side of the bed, his hand sliding around his shaft. The skin is hot and smooth, he's still hard, tacky with the residue from the condom. Patrick moans softly.

 

Pete keeps his thrusts steady, grits his teeth against the urge to fuck him hard and fast. He's pretty sure Patrick can take it, but he wants to draw it out, wants to savour it. He starts to stroke Patrick in time with his thrusts, feels the slick of pre-come at the head of his cock, gives a twist of his wrist on each slide down over his shaft. Patrick cries out something barely coherent, something between a gasp and a moan, something guttural and thick that sounds a lot like fuck yeah and his stomach twists sharply in response.

 

He goes deeper, heat tightening his groin and pooling low in his belly. He slides a hand up the creamy pale smoothness of Patrick's back, curls it over his shoulder and pulls, tugs, _drags_ him up onto his knees, that beautiful expanse of lightly freckled skin crushed flush to his chest, Patrick's thighs braced over his own.

 

“You're fucking amazing,” he growls, nipping softly at the velvet smooth tag of his earlobe. Patrick whimpers, wraps his hand over Pete’s around his cock and urges him along. “You gonna come for me?”

 

He has the dissonant sense that Patrick should be murmuring this shit to him, these empty, porn movie platitudes. He wonders if he whispers them to other johns, if the air of hostility and open dislike is reserved exclusively for Pete and all he stands for, the physical embodiment of a system that’s fucked him. It seems only fitting that he should actually fuck him, he supposes as he thrusts his hips up into Patrick, feels him push back, bouncing on his lap in time. He’d love to suck a mark to that milk pale throat, to leave a perfect, rose-coloured imprint of his mouth against the alabaster perfection of his skin but he resists, slipping his free hand up to cup Patrick’s smooth chin, turning his head back over his shoulder so he can kiss him. It’s deep and dirty, a mess of tongues and lips and spit, a kiss like a demand.

 

Patrick’s smooth, pink cock is straining against his palm, veined and heavy in his hand, the head leaking steadily. He's breathing hard and fast, panting ragged breaths against Pete’s lips, shotgunning the oxygen from his lungs. One pale hand is still curled over Pete’s on his cock, the other reaching back to grab at Pete’s hip, short nails raking at his skin in desperation. He mewls softly into Pete’s mouth and, as he lets out a stuttering groan, Pete feels the warm stickiness of his come pulsing from his dick, across his sheets, oozing down over their entwined fingers.

 

Patrick clenches—impossibly tight and hot—around his cock, each throb of his release a contraction that grips at Pete’s dick. Their tongues move together wet and messy as that crest, that wonderful tidal wave of pleasure and need threatens to crash over him. He’s nothing but greedy, ravening hands like claws that grasp at warm, willing flesh, a heavy throb of a cock sheathed deep in delectable heat and lips that demand more—more to taste, more to feel, more tongue, more spit, come, _blood_. Nails find purchase in milk-pale skin leaving crescents like brands, hips strain, bodies slam like car wrecks and he’s panting meaningless breaths into hot, wet skin— _fuck Patrick oh fuck Patrick._

 

He comes undone with a cry, a gasping shout that shreds his throat until he can taste blood— _yes, fuck, oh YES, Patrick more, fucking MORE_ —it’s like coming undone, like fibres twisting snapping unravelling until there’s nothing left but bones and skin and pounding bliss. It radiates out like sunrise from his very core, it’s too much, so much, everything. All he needs and everything he wants.

 

He grunts quietly, buries his face in the satin-soft skin of Patrick’s neck as each delicious throb of his pulse echoes through his groin, crackles over his skin until his whole body is tingling with it, the glow suffusing through him like summer sunlight. Slowly, he lowers his boneless body down to the mattress, pulls Patrick with him and feels his softening cock slip free as he spoons against the kid’s back. His forehead is pressed to the damp skin of Patrick’s shoulder, arms tight around his waist, the delicious scent of sweat, come and hot male skin thick enough to taste.

 

Patrick tolerates it for a minute or so, his rough breathing steadying and, when Pete reaches up and presses his palm flat to the kid’s breastbone he can feel his heartbeat levelling out. He kisses his neck, the warm hollow of his throat, tastes the salt of sweat against his lips but then Patrick is wriggling, fighting against him. He lets go, watches him struggle upright and gather himself, orientate himself in the room for a second then he’s reaching for his shorts and tugging them up quickly, fumbling for his jeans.

 

“How much would it cost for you to stay the night?” Pete asks quietly, rolling onto his back and propping himself up on his elbows. It’s over now and all he can picture is that cold street corner and those faceless men that loom in his imagination like nightmarish spectres. 

 

“I don’t do sleepovers,” Patrick snaps, dragging on his shirt and fumbling with his zipper.

 

“We don’t have to do anything else,” he assures him. “I’ll take the couch, you can-”

 

“You’ll take the couch?” Patrick repeats with a hard snort of mirthless laughter. “Want to stay between me and the door, right? Make sure I don’t steal anything?”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Pete insists quietly. “Come on, what difference does one night-”

 

“I—don’t—do—sleepovers,” Patrick spits with electrifying vehemence. “You bought my ass, you got it, I don’t owe you shit. Get a fucking boyfriend if you want to cuddle after.”

 

He’s out of the room and heading for the living room, Pete drags on his shorts and follows him, watches him in silence as he tugs on his shoes and jacket, locates his hat and yanks it down over his ears.

 

“My money?” He extends his hand, palm up expectantly, blue eyes defiant once again. “I have us at two twenty.”

 

“Just a suggestion,” Pete reaches for his wallet. He’s filled with quiet fury offset by agonising guilt and something else, some suffocating sense of protectiveness that he can’t pin down, can’t control and compartmentalise like one of his case files. It spills from him as unbidden words, sharp and barbed. “But you might want to make sure you get the money _before_ you let someone fuck you. And buy some fucking lube. And make sure you _tell_ them to use a condom. And-”

 

“What the fuck are you? The patron saint of rent boys?” He snatches at the bills Pete hands him, counting them hurriedly before peeling off a fifty and holding it back out with a scowl. “You gave me too much.”

 

“It’s a tip,” Pete shrugs, leaning against the counter. “I hear they’re pretty popular in the service industry.”

 

He’s being an asshole, wishes he could stop, doesn’t know why he’s doing this but he can’t control it, can’t curb the anger that roars through him like flames, his words the oxygen required to fan them higher. He knows he’s only furious with himself but he’s determined to deflect it onto Patrick. This is _his_ fault—beautiful, cocky, _arrogant_ little shit.

 

“I told you what I charge, I’m not a fucking thief,” Patrick snarls, pale face flushing red as Pete raises an eyebrow, the gesture loaded with unspoken accusations. “Fuck you, I’m not _that_ kind of thief.”

 

With that he drops the fifty onto the couch and heads for the door, pausing as he yanks it open to growl back over his shoulder.

 

“Don’t bother me again, okay? Just… Leave me the fuck alone.”

 

The apartment is suddenly cold and empty as Patrick pulls the door shut with more force than is, perhaps, strictly necessary and Pete is left with nothing more than the rejected fifty and crushing guilt that he truly believes might swallow him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I say this every week and all but _seriously_ thank you so very much for taking the time to read my stuff each week, it means the world to me to have the validation of strangers on the internet! Until next week...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Welcome back - glad you could make it! I have nothing interesting or snappy to observe this week so... on with the story...

Pete hasn't slept since Patrick left his apartment with a flutter of a fifty dollar bill and a slam of the door.

Forty eight hours of jarring wakefulness, of spikes of agonising guilt jolting through him each time his exhausted mind attempts to plunge into the blissful nothingness of sleep. He isn't sure—because how can he be—but he thinks he might be losing his mind, his grip on sanity so tenuous it feels like a delicate thread pulled taught. He can see the fibres fraying, see them peeling back one by one, aware that the slightest tug could unbalance it all, could send him crashing back a year to a Best Buy parking lot and a handful of Ativan.

_No._

Soft, pink lips drawn into a tight, hard scowl spilling angry words that burn and sear through him as bitter as bile. He’s not sure which burns brighter, the guilt or the self-loathing, the humiliation or the fear, just knows that he’s sick with the very thought of what he did, what he wants to do again. He wants Patrick. Wants him spread out and open for him, wants him moaning and writhing all desperate cries and thick, hard cock. He wants honey sweet lips and a tight ass around his dick, wants murmured pleas and hungry touches. He _wants._ Even though he knows he shouldn’t, even though he knows Patrick doesn’t.

He stares at the box on his bed, nothing important, a shoebox that once contained a pair of converse that have long since frayed and torn. There's probably an allegory in there but he's too drunk on exhaustion and prescription medication to make it. He runs a hand over the lid lightly, fingers softly cautious as though he's worried it might burn him. He needs to look, needs to see, needs to draw comparisons that he doesn't want to make, the accusations banging around in his aching, sleep-deprived brain, screaming at him for answers. He snatches at the lid with an irritated huff and drags out a handful of pictures.

Dark eyes, darker than his, espresso next to whiskey, an arm slung casually around his shoulders, cigarette aloft between pale fingers. The shy smile of a smitten teen playing across a face that looks like his own but more vibrant, more vigorous, more youthful and bright. Not like now, not now his eyes are dulled with the sharp sting of rejection, ripped apart by the knowledge that _”I love you,”_ isn't forever, isn't a truth, is barely a sentence worth acknowledging. Three words that roll from lying lips to land on a kid desperate for affection, attention and a burning desire to be something bright and needed in the eyes of another.

Professor Lazzara was everything—the air in his lungs, the ground beneath his feet, the sun, the moon and every other heavenly body in between. And _what_ a heavenly body, hot and damp with sweat between Pete's thighs, warm breath laced with cigarette smoke and sweet words whispered just for him. 

Undergrad through law school, he snatched each year from freshman to graduation from Pete, lifted each one from a vibrant, hopeful eighteen year old to an angry, jealous, _bitter_ twenty-four year old and every year and emotion in between. Each whispered lie, each insincere promise, each declaration of _“as soon as you're not my student,” “once you've graduated,” “when you finish law school.”_

Always a reason. Always an excuse.

He searches the face of the boy in the picture but there's nothing but a blazing smile and unfettered adoration. It was the first picture Adam allowed him to take, the two of them laid back in his bed, bare chested. Bare everything under the sheets. His skin is honeyed gold and unmarked on the photograph—his hand drifts absently to rub at the ink under his navel, a frown creasing his brow— _you'd look good with some ink, I'll draw something for you, make you mine._

He turns his attention to Adam, trying to find some hint of the man that stole his youth, flipping through picture after picture. There are polaroids, printed shots on glossy paper, blurry pictures streaked with pink from his crappy college dorm room printer, straight-faced, smiling, grinning, smirking, nothing, nothing, _nothing._

He hurls the pictures at the wall, watches them explode into a shower of sharp-edged confetti that flutters to the ground in a way that doesn't adequately reflect the aching fury knotted like a tight ball in the centre of his chest. Their final conversation plays over in his head, the hard edge of Adam's desk under his flexing fingers, knuckles glowing bright through the skin, the smell of dust and leather and books mingling with sweat and come. A plea, a desperate prayer, begging and cajoling and fucking pathetically _wheedling_. Not another christmas alone, not another birthday left waiting for him to show, _it's been six and a half years just give me something, anything._

Adam was smiling, slow and easy, dragging up his zipper and pulling on his shirt before slowly, deliberately, reaching into his pocket and extracting a small band of white gold. Pete's heart leaping with joyful anticipation, pounding, mouth dry because _this is it, the moment we've all been waiting for._ Confusion creeping into the edges as Adam slipped it onto his own third finger of his left hand, then realisation—plain gold, fitted to him, placed there by someone else, someone unmentioned, someone that got the birthdays, the christmases, the holiday celebrations. The wife. The kids. Fucking _kids,_ plural. Curly-haired little moppets with their mommy’s blue eyes and daddy’s dark hair.

The car, dark and quiet, radio playing softly in the background. The pill bottle, the bite of the ridged cap against his palm, the ink on his arms stark and etched for someone that didn't want him.

No. No, no, _no._

 _This_ is what older men do to younger men. Fuck them up, use them, discard them for the next bright-eyed teen with a shy smile and hopeful heart. He's already used Patrick, his lips, his cock, his ass, all exchanged for so many crisp bills spat from an ATM to Pete's wallet to Patrick's chilled, wind-bitten hand. Consumerism at it's absolute finest.

He needs to stay away, needs to put all thoughts of soft, blonde hair and sweet, plump lips, of a thick, hard cock and velvet smooth skin out of his mind. He sullies good things, turns them sour and bad, the blackness of Adam has already seeped so deep into his bloodstream he's not sure he can drain him away—though it's a pretty thought, opened veins and leaking crimson—he doesn't know how to undo the damage and prevent himself from filtering it down to the next kid. That's how the cycle unfolds; abusers were themselves abused and so the pattern continues.

Fuck, if he could just switch off and sleep, just for a couple of hours.

The sheets still smell faintly of Patrick, of his sweat, skin and Axe Apollo. He wonders if it’s acceptable to lie on sheets streaked with the come of a stranger—one that sells himself to anyone that wants him, no less—but he supposes that the time for questioning the ethics and acceptability of the situation has long since passed.

He wonders for what feels like the thousandth time when Patrick finished working on Friday, if he was out again last night, if he’s stood at the corner again tonight. He left the apartment at just before eleven but he has no idea what time sleazy men— _just like him_ —call it a night on paying for access to young guys’ bodies. He wonders if anyone else has fucked him, if anyone’s shoved him to his knees and pressed their cock down his throat. He wonders if any of them were gentle.

None of that abates the guilt that feels as though it’s suffocating him, crawling up through his belly and wrapping tight around his lungs in thick, constricting ropes. There are voices in his ear that taunt him, whisper venom about how disgusting he is, how pathetic, paying some kid for access to his body because it’s easier than finding himself someone his own age that doesn’t need to be given cash to touch him. Then there’s the bitter chuckle of a thought—layered under the jarring melody of agonising self-reproach—that reminds him that no one with half a shred of self-respect or a modicum of natural intelligence would want him anyway. Even _Patrick_ doesn’t want him and he’s a fucking whore. He literally _paid_ him to want him and it still wasn’t enough.

_Leave me the fuck alone._

His ears still ring with it, fuck it feels like his skull is vibrating with it, pounding with a syncopated beat of rejection. What exactly was he hoping for? What did the kid call it— _the full fucking boyfriend experience_ —the illusion for pathetic men that someone is there for that little something beyond their baser needs. The kisses, affectionate words, someone to hold for a moment or two afterwards. Not that Patrick seemed to fully grasp the concept of _boyfriend experience_ beyond a few dizzying kisses. 

Andy called and called yesterday morning, Pete’s phone was alight and glowing with calls and texts and messages. He came to the apartment and leaned on the buzzer until Pete caved and stumbled to the intercom, whispered that he was sick—it’s not like Andy needed to know which definition of the word he was using—then crawled back into his bed where he could curl into the sheets and just breathe, just take in the kid’s scent. He could close his eyes and almost pretend it was real, that there was a lover who just slipped away to get breakfast, that at any moment there would be a shift of the mattress, warm arms around his waist and whispers in his ear.

It’s not that he doesn’t realise Patrick is the focus of his crushing loneliness. The kid is basically untouchable in the strangest way. Sure, Pete _could_ pay for his body— _leave me the fuck alone_ —but it’s not the same. It’s not whispered declarations in quiet rooms, it’s not warm feet tucked up into his lap with something crappy on TV, it’s not another toothbrush in the bathroom, a second water glass by the bed. _Not the same._

He should go look for him. He won’t talk to him, he’ll leave him alone. Fuck, Patrick won’t even _see_ him. Maybe if he can see him, reassure himself that Patrick still blazes with his usual defiant arrogance, that he’s as _okay_ as an eighteen year old rent boy can be then maybe he’ll be able to sleep. The more he thinks about it, the more sense it makes to his battered and swirling brain, just a glimpse, he promises himself, just the briefest glance then back to bed and blissful unconsciousness. 

It seems as though he’s wearing his jacket and heading out of the building before he’s had the chance to really weigh up the consequences of what he’s doing. His hoodie isn’t thick enough for the biting November wind and the cold of the pavement seems to seep through the soles of his sneakers but it seems apt—fitting, even—that he feel the chill of the night. He pulls up his hood carefully over his bangs, thrusts his hands a little deeper into his pockets and hurries along the sidewalk in an attempt to keep warm.

A left at the end of the street, across the crosswalk, past the 7/11 on the corner, a right and another sharp left. His footsteps are soft and muted, his breathing hard and ragged. He knows every offence that he’s committed, the fines and suggested sentences crowing at him from those dark reaches of his mind and he recites them silently like a penance. His only comfort is that the kid would face the same punishment and that should be enough for him to keep his soft, lush-lipped mouth firmly shut. But there’s still the _risk_ —Class A misdemeanour, Class 4 felony. Jail time. 

Of course that’s not where it ends, even without charges being pressed there’s the risk to his job— professional misconduct, his licence to practice revoked. He can imagine how _that_ conversation with his dad would go— _sorry, old man, turns out I’m not just a disappointing faggot, I’m the disappointing, lonely, pathetic faggot that paid a teenager for sex._

He makes a final turn cautiously and presses to the wall, the shadows are thicker at the mouth of an alleyway so he slides into them gratefully, eyes carefully trained on the huddled group of kids pressed under the glow of the streetlamp. There’s a low hum of talk from them, nothing loud or overly raucous but the occasional burst of laughter and snapped _fuck you,_ suggests it’s the usual shit-talking that teenage boys engage in. It seems strange, bizarrely foreign to Pete that they would laugh and joke with one another as they wait for a car to pull up and take one of them away to exchange his body for a few crumpled bills.

For a frantic moment or two he can’t see him. There’s just a press and crush of gangly teenage limbs, of hair of varying shades of brown and black but no soft honey blonde, no aquamarine eyes and angry, defiant scowl. There’s a scuffle amongst a couple of the boys, nothing bad, it seems playful and when the pack disperses, whooping and jeering, he sees him.

He’s leaning back into a tall, willowy kid of around the same age. He’s pretty, Pete notes bitterly, with thick dark hair that hangs in careless waves around a delicate face with elegantly high cheekbones. Patrick's laughing, lips stretched into a grin as he pulls a ridiculous face before turning back over his shoulder and, as the taller kid stoops, their mouths meet in a deep, sensual kiss. The kid's hands are all over Patrick, sliding down his chest and dipping into the waistband of his jeans, one gliding to cup his cheek and pull him in fractionally deeper. Patrick reaches back, pale fingers pressed to the skintight denim stretched over the kid’s hips, dragging him forward.

Pete burns with jealousy.

Sharp and bitter, it claws at his throat with the sting of bile, muscles twitching with the urge to cross the street, to grab the kid and break his fucking jaw. He breathes, deep and slow, forces it down from white hot explosion of furious rage to dark and swirling depths of rage.

They break apart laughing, Patrick grins back over his shoulder at the kid, says something Pete can’t hear and gets a playful cuff to the side of his head. A car draws up to the curb, the tall one is beckoned to the window and within moments Patrick is called over to join them. The driver must have been watching their little display. The two boys smile prettily, all white teeth and sparkling eyes, there’s a tilt of Patrick’s head, a kittenish nod and grin that he didn’t share with Pete during their time together and he’s rattling the door handle of the sedan, slipping into the passenger seat and leaving the other boy on the sidewalk. Pete takes half a step forward towards the mouth of the alleyway, he could offer more cash, is a bidding war _likely?_

_Leave me the fuck alone._

He steps back, scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the asphalt and bites the inside of his cheek until the flesh gives and breaks and his mouth floods with blood. The car rolls away down the street, tail lights glowing red and mocking as the car turns at the intersection taking Patrick God knows where to do God knows what. A motel? An alleyway? Darkened parking lot with the radio playing softly in the background over the slap of skin against the skin? His stomach flips and cramps, bile burning at the back of his throat.

He braces back against the wall, shivering with the deep, heavy chill of the night that seems to settle down into his very bones and the sickening knowledge that someone, some unworthy, filthy _motherfucker_ is touching the kid in ways he doesn’t want. He keeps his eyes focused on the intersection, shoulder propped against the cold, hard brickwork of the building at the mouth of the alley and waits. 

As soon as he gets back. Once he knows he’s safe, _then_ he’ll go home and sleep.

***

For two weeks he’s left his apartment at nine, slipped out into the velvety darkness of the Chicago night and wound his way to the street where the boys gather. He tries to vary his route— _just in case_ —though he isn’t sure who or what he might be avoiding. He’s discovered a few places to hide, alleys where he can loop from behind without needing to step out onto the street, shadows that cloak him from the gaze of the boys that might recognise him from that first night, from Patrick and his vicious scowl.

Some nights he’s there. Pete both hopes for these nights and desperately wishes for them not to be. His selfish side is eager to run his eyes over him, to drink in the way his eyes brighten as he smiles at his friends, the way his lush lower lip curves, to hear his laughter, low and musical. His jealous side screams with impotent rage when the kid is picked up, when he climbs into a car with that inviting smirk that Patrick didn’t share with him— _why_ didn’t he share it with _him?_ —when he returns with a grin thrown carelessly over his shoulder. And then there’s the waiting, the pacing in the alleys and dark, hidden places as he burns with frustrated fury and envy. 

The johns seem to trail off after midnight and so do the boys. Patrick always leaves with the tall one, jostling and shoving at one another, playful as puppies as they head down the street. Occasionally one or the other will instigate a kiss, deep and searching, hands dragging at hair, bodies pressed as close as whispered promises. Pete hates that arrogant bastard with his high cheekbones and porcelain pale skin.

Some nights there’s no sign of him and Pete feels relief—sweet and heated—that tracks through his veins like the burn of a decent whiskey. It’s chased almost immediately by the icy grip of selfish disappointment that he won’t get to look, won’t get to admire, won’t get to watch him squeezed up close to the other kid and imagine it’s _his_ hair caught between Patrick’s pale fingers, _his_ mouth plundered by that soft pink tongue.

All nights ultimately end the same way. Pete staggering into his apartment and slamming the door closed sharply behind him. He shoves his jeans down under his ass as his cold, numb fingers fumble for his cock and he leans, left hand braced against his front door, as he gets himself off. He closes his eyes and imagines Patrick on his knees in front of him, lips framing his cock, pretty blush pink against angry blood dark. Exquisite.

This Sunday night is no different to the two that fell before it and he's leaning, fingernails scraping against the wood grain until it stings, hand moving hard and fast as he breathes ragged groans to nothing but silence. He needs—God how he _needs_ —needs to touch Patrick again, needs to fuck him, needs to taste him with an intensity that leaves his chest tight and aching.

_Leave me the fuck alone._

He's drifting from the moment, struggling to get off as he sucks a couple of fingers into his mouth, coats them quickly with a wet slide of his tongue then reaches back and presses both inside of himself hard and fast. He cries out, a jagged burst of noise that seems impossibly loud in the empty apartment, bouncing around the walls and back to his ears to mock him as he fingers himself with more speed than finesse. He comes, weak and unsatisfying, his dick soft in his hand almost before it's over, his knees just as pliant as he sinks to the floor, back to the wall and eyes closed. He knows he won't sleep again tonight. He can't live like this, he's going insane as he slips back and back to that _fucking_ parking lot.

He crawls to his bed and collapses into the sheets that he still hasn’t changed although the scent of the kid has long since faded from the cotton. It’s the thought, he decides as he presses his face where Patrick’s head had rested against the pillow, the _idea_ that he was there, his presence lingering ghost-like and tormenting. He closes his eyes and breathes deep, imagines he can still smell him, imagines he can still _feel_ him, all angular hips and that softly rounded ass. 

He barely sleeps.

The next morning sees him caffeinated and rubbing his jaw as he blinks at his computer screen from heavy eyes. Movement seems disjointed and foreign, as though there’s another being between his brain and his limbs making him dull and slow. He fires up the criminal records archive and—with a wary glance over his shoulder—he strikes the keys as quickly as he can, as though sheer speed can override the inherent wrongness of his actions.

_Patrick Vaughn._

The system blinks back at him slowly, the interminable cycle of the spinning arrow constantly chasing it’s fletch infuriating and dizzying. The page freezes, flashes and slowly reloads. Patrick Vaughn. He fumbles for the case notes, clicking with fingers suddenly numb and clumsy. He leans closer, nose almost brushing against the screen as he scans desperately for information. One shoplifting offence, the civil demand unpaid—just as he suspected it would be—an address out in the northern suburbs and… _Nothing._

“Motherfucker,” he hisses under his breath, biting down hard on his lip as he lowers his head into his hands.

That can’t be possible, there’s no way that was his first offence, there’s _no way_ that kid hasn’t been in trouble before. He’s… He’s given a fake name. It’s so obvious now Pete thinks about it. But why? Something niggles at him, something in the way Patrick shook his head so vehemently when Pete asked about his parents. Something that has him checking the missing persons record.

Specifically, missing children.

It’s sad reading. Pete supposes it’s a little known fact that most missing kids don’t get their picture on the side of a milk carton. Most missing kids aren’t snatched away from a family that loves them, that wants them home and worries themselves sick waiting for news. Most missing kids are fresh from the care system, runaways, escapees, fleeing a life of abuse, mistreatment or general lack of interest from their caregivers, convinced that anything has to be better than what the care system has to offer.

He feels a sense of inevitability when a record catches his eye—Patrick Martin Stumph—and clicks on it with trembling fingers. The face that stares back at him from the screen is undeniably Patrick, the messy blonde hair, the challenging blue eyes, soft, full lips. Pete forces himself not to reach out and touch the screen—to gently caress his face recreated in pixels—and forces himself to read the missing persons report instead. Patrick went missing from his care placement mid-May, two weeks after his seventeenth birthday. No one reported him missing until July. Six weeks. Six fucking _weeks_ before anyone thought to report the kid missing.

Pete is confused, baffled as to why Patrick would lie and make himself _older,_ as a minor he’d have walked away with nothing more than a stern word from the police. He’d risked jail by declaring himself to be an adult and that… It just makes no sense to Pete at all.

Unless his placement was so bad he’d rather go to jail than get sent back there. He’s a kid, he presumably didn’t realise that if things had gone that far he would’ve absolutely been found out, would’ve been in even more trouble for giving a false name. Oh God, Pete wants to shake him, to tell him he’s an arrogant little fool. 

He reads through again. Seventeen. The kid is only _seventeen_. There’s only a few short months between that and the age he gave the police but Pete knows that soliciting sex from a person under eighteen is an automatic felony. He buries his face in his hands. He’s in way over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie, there's a CIA agent liaising with an MI6 agent about my search history and they have _no idea_ if I'm a threat... "soliciting sex from a minor in Illinois" was a new low, I got a pop up chat box from a lawyer in Chicago wanting to talk to me about my queries. Coupled with all of the street view searches I conduct...
> 
> Anyway, feedback is kind of integral to this whole gig. It would be absolutely super if you could just hit the kudos button if you're enjoying it, and I'd really appreciate it. 
> 
> If you want to chat, I can be found on Tumblr behaving inappropriately - sn1tchesandtalkers


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's Wednesday! Midweek! And what a week, this week Patrick will bring you angst, friendship and just a touch of drama...

Soft lips tease lightly at the head of his dick, pursed and plump and wet. He shifts slightly, pulls the long, dark waves of Will’s hair over his slim shoulder and flicks a smile at the guy on the opposite side of the bed, cock in one hand, cameraphone in the other. Patrick feels an involuntary shiver of revulsion slip down his spine like iced water as he adjusts, spreads his legs a little and forces out an appreciative little groan.

He’s bored.

Not so bored his dick has lost interest in Will’s mouth and if they were back at Gabe’s place, locked in the bathroom and exchanging rushed blowjobs on the cracked linoleum he’d be totally into it. But locked in a sleazy motel room with a sweaty dude wearing a wedding ring and wielding his shitty, fuzzy screened Nokia in one hand and little red dick in the other like he’s the porn equivalent of Ridley fucking Scott, well… It’s not exactly hurrying him along.

He jumps and bites off a yelp as Will’s teeth snag on the ridge where the head of his cock flares from the shaft, tightens his hand—hard—into soft dark waves and scowls down a warning. Rich brown eyes flutter open, brimmed with unspoken apologies.

“Hey, Red,” the guy on the bed gestures toward him. _Red?_ He’s fucking _blonde._ He raises an eyebrow in inviting question anyway, breathes another moan and arches his hips a little. “Lay back. You, cocksucker, move to the side, wanna see his ass while you finger him.”

Patrick tries not to but can’t help the irritated little sigh that puffs from his lips as he adjusts on the bed once more, leaning back against the pillows, one hand tucked behind his head and the other reaching down to squeeze his cock as Will moves to kneel at his hip. There’s a moment of awkward shifting, of trying to find the position that’s going to get this guy off as fast as possible so that they can escape. He hurries Will along, “No… That’s not gonna… Put your arm under… No, _under_ my leg… Fuck, Will, do you even know what under _means?_ Yeah, like that…”

His groans are a touch more genuine, a shade more enthusiastic as Will slides long, lube-slicked fingers inside of him, moves them with languid precision back and forth, back and forth. An easy tease, a steady slide that has Patrick’s mouth watering, cock tingling, a ragged little cry ripped from his throat as Will’s thumb crooks to rub up and over his balls. Will’s self-assured snicker of laughter is muffled around Patrick’s cock, his tongue swirling soft and slow as he bobs up and down the full length, finishing each slide up with a hard flick of his tongue over the head and Patrick is gasping, panting, _dying._

The soft pads of two elegant fingertips press with maddening gentleness against that spot, that perfect little point of pleasure hidden away inside of him and he whines, hand fisting weakly at Will’s hair as he rolls his hips in time with the clever fingers buried in him. He almost doesn’t notice as Will’s mouth slides off his cock, barely hears him speak beyond a distant whisper somewhere at the edges of his consciousness, “I can jerk him off, if you want a come shot?”

“Does he come big?” The guy asks breathlessly, Patrick feels a whisper of air pass his cheek, the suggestion of movement, knows but doesn’t care that the phone is tracking each inch of his body. Why would Patrick give a damn if some married man with child seats in his MPV wants a video of some nameless kid to watch behind locked doors, sensible pants pooling over sensible shoes as he strokes sweatily as his not-so-sensible cock.

“Fuck yeah.” Talented fingers are all Patrick can think about, long and elegant and deep inside of him. He’s thrumming with need from the point they touch, that delicious spot, that urgent epicentre of his very being, out and out and out like ripples on the lake, like need and want and selfish desire. Will adds a third and he’s choking on moans, lungs, tongue, teeth and lips insensible with them as he gropes for his cock but his hand is dragged away, pinned to the bed. “That’s it ‘Trick, c’mon baby, let go, wanna see you come…”

_“Fuck,”_ he cries out as Will’s warm, slim hand circles his cock and starts to stroke. He’s on his knees at Patrick’s hip, his own prick flushed and hard and crowned with delicate pearls of pre come. Patrick would touch—would taste—but he hasn’t been told to so he twists his fingers into the sheet beneath him instead and loses himself to Will’s hands. He jerks sharply, tries not to flinch away as the john begins tugging on his nipple. It’s too hard to be pleasurable, too rough to ignore, a sharp spike of pain with each twist. He reaches for the guy’s cock in a valiant effort to distract him but he twists away with a snarl.

“Don’t fucking _touch me,_ faggot.”

Patrick tenses, taut as wire, hands balled into fists and in any other context—any other context at all—in which he wasn’t bare ass naked with Will three fucking knuckles deep in his ass, in which he wasn’t relying on this _dickwad_ to hand him a fistful of bills, he swears he’d punch him in the fucking face. Instead he leans back, eyes narrowed and mouth drawn tight as Will leans over him awkwardly, tongues meeting before lips because that’s what sweaty middle-aged married men like to see teenage boys do to one another.

“Just calm down and fucking come already,” Will breathes behind the curtain of his soft, dark hair.

They share a grin, Will’s forehead presses to his gently for the briefest of moments and then he straightens, fingers tapping out a rhythm he won’t share with Patrick, hand curling, stroking, flashing against the smooth column of his prick until he’s thrashing on the bed. He’s breathless and wanting, begging and Will doesn’t deny him, fingers tightening around him, a gentle flick of a thumb over the head and in four or five quick, hard strokes he feels his release hit him square in the gut.

He groans, a soft sound in the back of his throat as the deep, pulsing tingles begin low in his groin, come shooting hot and thick over his stomach, over Will’s knuckles. He collapses back, breath stale and burning from confinement rushing from his lungs in a gusting gasp, chest heaving as he rakes in more. Will kisses him, soft and slow, his tongue gentle and lazy against Patrick’s as he subtly wipes his hands off on the comforter. 

“Now fuck him,” the john is red-faced and sweating, still hasn’t come. Patrick feels panic surging bright and painful in his chest as ridiculous tears prick his eyes. He fucking _hates_ this part, hates being fucked after he’s come. It’s humiliating, pinned under another body with a soft cock and damp skin, overwrought to the point each thrust makes his skin sting and burn with oversensitivity. He grits his teeth against the tears— _don’t fucking cry, don’t you dare fucking cry_ —and reminds himself that at least it’s Will, he’ll be gentle and whilst he won’t be able to make it good, he can at least make it not quite so _awful_.

There’s lube applied—cool and slick—and Will’s slender body between his thighs, lower lip bitten softly as he smiles a silent apology. Patrick reaches back and laces his fingers through the worn wooden slats of the headboard, eyes pressed closed and his cheek caught hard between his teeth. He can do this, it’s not so bad. Will presses in, slow and careful, stilling when he bottoms out, fingers points of reassuring pressure into Patrick’s hips. He shifts, uncomfortable, biting off a low sob and somehow twisting it into a moan. Will leans down and nuzzles at his ear gently, breathes quietly against his skin, “I’m sorry.”

He takes a deep breath as Will starts to thrust and reminds himself that this should make him enough cash to keep Gabe off his back for a couple of days at least. His skin feels like it’s burning, intense sensation firing each nerve ending, his body screaming useless objections that he traitorously ignores because for now—as long as that guy has the bills tucked in his wallet—Patrick knows his body isn’t really his own. He’s no longer _Patrick,_ no, right now he's merely a commodity, a convenience, a selection of holes to be fucked. He forces the thoughts aside as he rolls his head on the pillow and smiles seductively at the john, still tugging furiously at his cock.

“Hey,” he purrs, inclining his head towards the guy’s sad little prick. “You want me to suck that for you? I can get you off real fucking nice, see these lips? Yeah, they’d feel just as good as they look all wrapped around your cock. Would you like that, daddy-” the man gasps softly at the name, they _always_ fucking love that, sick fuckers, “-yeah, you’d like that, I know you would. You wanna shove your cock right down my throat, don’t you? Wanna make me gag? Maybe you could bend me over the bed, put that big cock of yours in my ass and fuck me through the mattress. Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You wanna feel me all tight around you, just like Will can? _Fuck,_ he feels so good, so fucking amazing. Oh _fuck,_ he’s gonna get me hard again then maybe you could suck it for me, you wanna taste my cock, don’t you? Yeah, you want to-”

The guy lets out the noise Patrick’s been waiting for, the strangled groan of ecstasy as he pulls frantically at his cock, come oozing over his hand and thighs as he sits, muscles taut and eyes closed, head thrown back. So fucking easy. He should have done that twenty minutes ago. The middle aged closeted married guys are always the same.

Within five minutes the guy has exchanged his hard on for burning shame, money tossed onto the comforter as he drags on his clothes looking at anything but Patrick or Will. He’s out of the door with a slam and the two are left alone to clean up in the grimy bathroom and dress at their leisure. Will didn’t come but doesn’t care, it’s not about getting off when they work with these guys. It’s money, a transaction and nothing more. Patrick doesn’t feel ashamed, why the fuck should he? _He’s_ not the one betraying his wife and kids.

“We could stay,” Will suggests quietly. He hates the house, hates the quiet darkness of his room and the cold, inadequate mattress in the corner. He wants to go home—he's told Patrick often enough as they lie on stained sheets—back to his mom and his sister in Barrington. Unfortunately his stepfather has other ideas, typical macho dude unimpressed by his new wife’s gay son. Patrick chews his lip—it’s tempting, a hot shower, a double bed, the room is warm if nothing else—but knows he can’t, shakes his head with a smile he knows doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I need to get back,” he shrugs, pulling on his denim jacket and grabbing his hat from the nightstand, distracting himself with tasks that excuse him from meeting Will’s eyes. “Brendon gets worried. But we can hook up later… I mean, if you want?”

“Yeah,” Will’s voice sparkles with gratitude. “That’d be nice.”

They leave the motel in silence, neither in any rush to return to their corner under the streetlight. Patrick recognises the area better than he should, knows Will doesn’t and uses that to his advantage as he takes them a block or two out of their way, pausing outside of a small liquor store, it’s sign glowing softly. He drags a couple of dollars out of his pocket and holds them out, “I’m so fucking thirsty, get me a Coke?”

“Get your own fucking Coke,” Will grumbles but he grabs the bills and slips into the store leaving Patrick alone on the sidewalk. 

He moves a dozen or so yards down the street, peers up at the building directly opposite. Third floor, fifth window on the left of the stairwell. Pete’s apartment. There’s a light burning in the window but no flicker of implied movement, no pulsing shadows from a TV. Patrick stares until his eyes squint and a dull throb begins behind his temples as he pictures Pete laid on the couch with one of those big piles of paperwork he saw stacked on the coffee table. He tries to imagine what it might be like to stand at the kitchen counter and make him a cup of coffee, to take it to the couch and slip down next to him. He wonders if he would glance up from his work. Would he smile at him as he takes the cup and pull him onto his lap for a kiss? 

Fuck, he’s seventeen, since when were his fantasies so fucking _domestic?_ He’s not even sure he knows how to make coffee anyway.

This isn’t the first night he’s stood outside of Pete’s window, staring up at the apartment as though he thinks he can summon him like some kind of low budget romance movie. Sometimes, if he stands there long enough, he sees him come to the window, rewarded with the briefest glimpse as he drops the shade. It’s soothing, oddly comforting to drink in the sight of him, blurred by distance and Patrick’s terrible eyesight, but he’s there. He’s real and solid and the window is some kind of magic fucking mirror into the life Patrick wishes he had. 

Pete—he’s decided—is kind. He had a gentleness to his touch, hands that lingered against Patrick’s skin like he _wanted_ to touch him, wanted to make him feel good. No one but Will has ever wanted to make him feel good and that’s only because Will’s as crushingly lonely as he is, desperate to ease the creeping fear with gentle caresses and soothing kisses. It had been easy to spit venom at Pete, to snarl bitter accusations because it meant he didn’t have to acknowledge that he was different. Who picks a whore up off the street and offers them fucking _pasta_ and a bed to sleep on? 

This isn’t the only place he stands and watches. He’s lingered outside Pete’s office—God bless the pamphlet in the lobby of the welfare office for providing him with a neat little list of offices of the Public Defender in Chicago, easy enough to narrow it down based on his bus route and the police precinct he’d attended—waiting in evening shadows for him to leave. He’s always late, always hurrying down the steps with his briefcase clutched in his hand, thick wool coat and scarf wrapped around him tightly. Patrick wonders how he dresses on weekends but guesses more of the same—office drone working for the man, right?—sensible pants and casual shirts that cover the rich tapestry of ink that lurks below. He thinks he’s so fucking edgy with his stupid tattoos, Patrick assumes he got them to piss off the kind of middle class parents that would pay for a fancy college education. In honesty, he prefers to think of him not wearing clothes, to recall the way their skin had contrasted so prettily.

He’s saved from analysing things any further by Will returning and pressing a cold plastic bottle into his hand. He unscrews the cap and takes a swig, eyes casually on the window for a final lingering look. Nothing. No sign of him. With a sigh he closes his drink and follows Will down the street, back towards Gabe’s place 

It’s too late to pick up any more tricks anyway.

Back at the house he checks on Brendon, finds him sleeping soundly, curled under blankets and still wrapped up in his hoodie. He smiles with affection and turns to climb quietly up the stairs. 

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, slipping quietly into Will’s darkened room and joining him on his mattress with a smile. He drags quickly at Will’s shirt, pulling it up and over his head, nails pulling blunt and teasing across his smooth chest as he nips lightly at his neck.

“How do you have the energy?” Will groans quietly, raising his hips as Patrick drags down his jeans, a soft hiss drifting from parted lips as he quickly sucks down his cock. “Shit…”

It’s quick, rushed, the same way it always is between them on the mattress or in the bathroom. He swallows the bitter heat of Will’s come and rolls onto his back, hips arching up to the warm, soft hand wrapped around his cock. In minutes he’s coming, hot and sticky on his stomach, breath a roughened rasp against his throat as he turns his head, lips crashing into Will’s with a soft sigh. Will curls against him, head on his shoulder and he plays his fingers lightly through the silky length of his dark hair, “You okay?” He asks quietly. Will’s shoulders hitch in a shrug.

“Do they…” Will begins hesitantly, falling silent for a moment before continuing. “Do you get off? With them?”

“The cocks?” Patrick stares at the spiderweb intricacy of cracks snaking their way across the ceiling. He thinks of Pete, of tan skin and deft, sure lips, of hands that touched him like he was more than just a convenient hole to come inside of. “No. Not really. Why?”

“Me neither,” Will whispers against his skin, lips brushing softly. “You going back to Bren?”

“Yeah,” he adjusts his shorts and jeans, grabs at the corner of Will’s blanket and carefully wipes himself off. Will tenses and although he forces a smile, it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You could come with? Bren won’t mind.”

Will nods and they pad back down to the dining room, Brendon stirs only as long as it takes to mumble, “Don’t do any weird shit next to me, assholes,” then they’re huddling together like puppies. It’s warm in the middle, packed between two bodies but the chill of need that radiates from them seeps down into his bones. As Brendon presses back against his chest and Will tucks his nose into the crook of his neck Patrick can feel only rising panic. They need him. They rely on him to form foundations and don’t seem to realise he’s barely secure enough to anchor himself, he can’t take the weight and strain of two more sets of shattered dreams dragging at him.

But he can’t possibly tell them that, so instead he smooths Brendon’s hair, cranes his neck to brush a kiss to Will’s soft lips and closes his eyes. Things always seem worse in the darkness, always more hopeless and desperate. Dawn will bring relief so he closes his eyes, listens to the room swell and relax with deep, regular breathing and allows himself to drift.

***

The house is eerily silent when he gets back a few days later. His guitar is slung across his back, his pocket reassuringly weighted with loose change and small bills, apparently the holiday season really _does_ make the citizens of Chicago more generous. He slips through the living room, skirts past the kitchen and is heading for the dining room when a low voice pierces the silence and sets his heart hammering an uncomfortable staccato against his ribs.

“Where you going, _guero,”_ Gabe’s voice is deceptively soft as he moves from the counter to the table, hands wrapped around the backrest of one of the chairs. “Sit.”

“H-hey, Gabe,” Patrick greets him cautiously, eyes flicking once again to the door—just like they do every time Gabe speaks to him—weighing up his options. It’s dark out and at least every other streetlight doesn’t work. He knows the alleyways and backyards, knows every twist and turn of the local neighbourhood. Maybe, under darkness, if he gets the doors closed behind him…

Brendon. Is Brendon upstairs? Fuck. Fear surges through him cold as ice, if he thought he couldn’t feel more chilled he was wrong. His chest is already heaving painfully, his inhaler out of reach in the pocket of his backpack, his vision blurring a little as he keeps his eyes warily pinned on Gabe. 

“Bren?” He calls out, voice thin and weak. He clears his throat and yells loudly as Gabe closes the distance between them. “Brendon? You home?”

He has a blissful moment of relief to acknowledge that Brendon hasn’t replied, a beat or two of repose because _thank fuck, he must be out,_ before Gabe’s hand twists into the collar of his jacket—snagging a handful of hair with it—and he’s dragged with terrifying ease to the chair, shoved down hard. His guitar strap snags on the chair, pulls taut before the hook gives and it clatters to the floor with a thrum of angry, discordant noise. Gabe moves back to the counter and grabs at something horribly familiar—a Folgers coffee can—that he slams down onto the scratched tabletop with a snarl.

“Gonna explain?” Dangerous intent threads between two innocuous words. Patrick stares at the can in silence—all of his busking cash, those tens and twenties he slipped from wallets and into his pocket—his nest egg, his apartment fund. Tears of frustration and surging fear blur his vision, his throat too tight and dry for him to speak clearly as he mumbles half formed apologies—it’s fucking _December,_ they won’t survive on the streets. Gabe cuts him off in a voice that drips with fury like the bitterest blood. “I bring you into my home, _puto,_ I give you some place to sleep, food from my fucking refrigerator and this— _this_ —is the fucking thanks I get?”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick whispers. He doesn’t speak Spanish but he knows enough to know what _puto_ means. As if it was his choice, as though the situation was engineered by anyone other than Gabe. “Y-you can take it, all of it, I was just-”

“You thought keeping it was a fucking _option, puto?”_ Gabe’s voice is terrifyingly level as he grabs the can and smashes it across the back of Patrick’s head, hard. Hard enough that his forehead snaps down and collides sharply with the tabletop, hard enough that he’s left dizzy and disoriented for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” the words are a strangled sob of sound that bursts painfully from his chest. It’s too cold out, Brendon needs to be some place warm, he’s fucked up, he’s fucked up so fucking badly. “Please just-”

“Shut the fuck up, faggot,” Gabe snarls. “Give me what you made today and get the fuck out of my house. I see you or that motherfucker back here again I’ll fucking kill you, you understand?”

Patrick nods weakly, fumbling in his pocket and dumping the money down onto the tabletop. He grabs his guitar and his backpack and stumbles, staggering over his own feet for the door. Will is heading down the stairs, leather jacket over his slim frame, dark eyes wide with confused fear, “Patrick?”

“Is Bren upstairs?” He asks desperately, relief soaring through him as Will shakes his head.

“Is something wrong?” Will’s voice is soft concern and gentle care and the tears are thick and choking at the back of Patrick’s throat.

“I gotta go,” he pushes past him desperately, terrified Gabe will change his mind, waiting to feel the snag of a hand on his shoulder, the crunch of bone and flesh under a hard fist. “I just… Gotta go…”

He’s outside, skin stinging and tight in the frigid December air as he hurries down the sidewalk, fumbling for his cheap, crappy pre-paid phone. There’s no money left on it for him to call Brendon and now there’s no money in his backpack to pay for more minutes, just a few of the free text messages the provider gives him each month so he taps out a message.

_Dont go bk 2 house meet me @ 711 on Kinzie asap_

He shoves his phone back into his pocket and squares his shoulders. This isn’t just about him, he has a kid to take care of, he can’t fall apart. He needs to think of something, someplace for them to go where Brendon will be safe. If he can get the kid set up somewhere then he can get back out onto the streets tonight. The money will be his own, a few nights and he’ll have made as much as Gabe stole from him, he can find them a room, he can… he can…

He makes his way to the 7/11, finds a spot on the sidewalk where Brendon will spot him easily and lowers himself to the concrete. He huddles into himself against the biting wind, collar turned up to cover his ears and sleeves tugged down over his hands. He’s shivering hard, teeth clattering against one another so loudly that it rings into his ears until his whole body thrums with it. He has no idea why he chose this particular store, just that it’s close to Pete’s place and—fucking _pathetically_ —that makes him feel a little safer, a little more secure. Just around the corner, half a block down the street, third floor, fifth window to the right of the stairwell.

An hour passes, two, he’s terrified, firing text after text at Brendon’s phone as he scans the sidewalk frantically for a familiar lolloping gait and wide, exaggerated grin.

He hears it first, the muted thud of loud bass, the throaty roar of an over-revved engine. His palms are suddenly slick with sweat as he staggers to his feet on legs that feel disjointed and weak. Gabe’s car approaches slowly, rolling along by the sidewalk in a way that’s sickeningly familiar to Patrick, the whirr of a window motor, the leering smile of a john as he casts his eye over what’s on offer. This is different, this is the car crawling to a halt next to him, the passenger door swinging open and the thud of bass terrifyingly loud in Patrick’s ears. He wants to clamp his hands over them to protect himself, to turn and run but there’s something, a bundle of rags and loose limbs and blood— _so much fucking blood_ — rolling out of the seat and onto the sidewalk at his feet. 

_Brendon._

“You forgot this, _puto,”_ Gabe laughs, a bark of burnt menace and spite, dark eyes and white teeth glinting in the gloom of the car. The door slams closed and the car roars away.

Patrick skids to his knees, gravel sharp against his skin, dragging frantically at Brendon’s hoodie and hauling him onto his back. There’s so much blood—blood everywhere, a horrifying mask across Brendon’s face—pouring from his mouth and nose, from cuts and gashes all over his face and neck. His eyes are so swollen Patrick can’t tell if they’re open or closed, can’t tell if he’s conscious or breathing or…

“Bren?” He whispers frantically, cradling the kid’s face gently in his hands, his head resting in his lap. “You awake? Brendon? Come _on_ asshole, fucking answer me…”

No one stops as they walk by, they don't even break their gait as they hurry past, eyes front and centre. Don't look, don't speak, don't pay attention and maybe you won't get stabbed. No one is _helping_ and Patrick rakes in desperate, burning lungfuls of cold air in a fruitless attempt to ward off the panic, to crush down the fear blooming—hot and painful—in the centre of his chest. Brendon groans something he can’t understand but he doesn’t care, noise means he’s breathing, it means he’s _living._ He could call 911 but they'd ask questions, they'd want answers Patrick couldn't give and then they'd work everything out and it would be back to the orphanage for Bren and God knows what for him because he's pretty sure it's illegal to take a child out of their care placement even if it _is_ shitty.

_Round the corner, halfway down the block, third floor, fifth window to the left of the stairwell._

“Come on, Bren,” he manages to haul Brendon to his feet, a combination of adrenaline and brute force surging through him, his voice sharper than he wants it to be as he continues. “Come _on,_ you lazy ass motherfucker. _Walk!_ Fucking _walk!_ Just… Fuck you and fucking _move,_ shithead…”

Brendon is a deadweight and a distance that can’t be more than a couple of hundred yards feels like miles as he half carries, half drags him along the sidewalk. There’s so much blood. So much fucking terrible, hot, red blood.

_Brendon is going to die._ He repeats that sentence over and over to himself even as he murmurs strings of nonsense into Brendon’s ear, reassurances that everything is going to be absolutely fine. He tells him that he saw an ad in the 7/11 for a room to rent and maybe they can go and check it out tomorrow, maybe once there’s a hot shower available he can get a job, then they can get a place to themselves…

He lowers Brendon against the wall and leans on the intercom, thumb pushed hard to the button for ten seconds, twenty, his thumb glowing white from the pressure. He pulls back and waits, frantic with need, before pressing again. He’s about to press a third time when a voice—oh, that voice, safety wrapped up in cautious cadance—crackles through the speaker.

“Hello? Who's-”

“Pete?” He wheezes desperately into the intercom. Pete is an _adult,_ someone with a degree and a sensible job to take over the situation and the tears flood through him, drown him as he breaks down, sobbing incoherently. “Pete, it’s… It’s Patrick… Brendon… Fuck, Pete, I think he’s gonna fucking die… I’m sorry I just… _Fuck_ … I need you to…”

“I’m coming… Just… Don’t move.” The crackling falls silent and Patrick is left leaning weakly against the heavy security door, tears chilling his already numb cheeks. He staggers to Brendon on shaking legs and lowers himself to his knees. Brendon is pale beneath the bruising and swelling and blood, his chest barely moving as Patrick strokes his hair softly.

“It’s okay,” he whispers into his ear. “You’re gonna be fine, I promise.”

“Hurts,” Brendon slurs. “‘m sorry, ‘Trick…Should've…”

“Shut the fuck up,” they’re harsh words belying the gentle tenderness with which they’re spoken, the soft hand against the blood-caked brow. “Just… Stop _talking,_ you fucking asshole…”

“Patrick?” He jumps violently at the hand on his shoulder, instinct causing him to lash out hard, catching Pete in the stomach with a tight fist. Pete's voice is a sharp, winded gasp. “What the _fuck?”_

“Fuck I… I didn’t mean…” He stammers, gesturing helplessly to Brendon. “I can’t… I didn’t know what to do…”

“Shit,” Pete is on his knees next to him, brushing a hand gently over Brendon’s brow. “What the fuck happened? You know what? Tell me later. Just... Help me get him inside.”

Patrick nods and breathes. He's with Pete and that feels _okay_ in ways he doesn't want to acknowledge right now. He strokes Brendon's brow once more before stumbling to his feet and hauling the boy upright between them.

“You're fine,” he whispers into Brendon's ear, tongue thick with the uncertainty of the statement. “You're okay. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I just sort of threw that porn right in your faces without any warning, didn't I? Uh... Sorry about that...
> 
> I know I say it all the time, but thank you so much for reading, it really means a lot. If you haven't hit the kudos button yet, and you're enjoying it, I'd be ever so grateful. It's nice to know people are enjoying what I write. Comments are nice too.
> 
> Right, well, until next week... Keep smiling, it's almost the weekend!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember two weeks ago when Brendon was bleeding in a street just on Kinzie in Chicago and Patrick thought he might die?
> 
> Yeah?
> 
> I should probably tell you how that worked out for him...

“The bed,” Pete instructs as soon as they’re through the door. Patrick nods weakly, his face bloodless, wax and ash, between the peak of his black cap and collar of his tight, grey shirt. He looks so young, all of the cocky defiance drained from him, his cheeks streaked with tear stains. Pete’s heart is hammering wildly—the kid Patrick has with him looks _terrible,_ he doesn’t blame him for thinking he might die. There's so much blood, it’s everywhere, all over the kid's clothes, his face, all over Patrick’s hands and streaked across his shirt, smudges of crimson on his porcelain-pale cheeks where he’s wiped his eyes.

 

“Patrick,” he begins firmly, waiting until terrified blue eyes meet his own to continue. “He needs to go to hospital, I’m gonna call-”

 

“No!” Patrick’s refusal is sharp and emphatic, hands balling into fists as he snarls. “You _can’t_ … I’ll… I’ll take him someplace else, just-”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pete snaps, the low thrum of a tension headache sparking behind his eyes. “Patrick, he’s hurt _really_ bad, he needs a doctor. He needs a hospital, I know you don’t have insurance but they’ll patch him up and-”

 

Patrick mumbles something softly under his breath, so low Pete doesn’t catch it. 

 

“What did you say?”

 

“He’s only fourteen,” Patrick repeats, voice a rough rasp of a whisper. “He… He ran away. From his placement. He’s a care kid not… Not like a _real_ kid or anything…”

 

Pete lets that sink in—he has two underage kids in his apartment, both of them runaways from the care system. This is _exactly_ the turn he needs his evening to take. He takes a deep breath to calm the swirling nausea and blazing panic attack he can feel building in his gut, creeping up into his chest, simultaneously flame hot and ice cold. Patrick is staring at him from wide, frightened eyes and he needs to act, needs to do something decisive. 

 

There’s _so much_ blood. 

 

He reaches for his phone, fumbles with it for a moment, his fingers shaking too badly to unlock the screen or scroll through his contacts but somehow he does it, taps the name and holds it to his ear with a trembling hand. Six rings, seven, eight, fuck _please_ don’t let it click to voicemail…

 

“Hello?” Relief barrels through him like sharp electric shocks, his vision blurring with panic.

 

“Andy?” His knees are weak, almost giving out as he leans against the wall. Patrick is kneeling by the bed, stroking Brendon’s hair silently, tears still tracking down his face. So much blood. “Oh fuck, Andy. You need to come over, there’s this kid and… You remember the kid from the precinct? Cute twink? He has a friend and… He’s hurt… No insurance but he’s only fourteen and like, he can’t… There’s so much fucking blood, Andy, please just-”

 

“You’re not making any sense,” Andy cuts him off gently. “Is someone hurt?”

 

“Yeah,” Pete nods furiously, he can’t breathe, his chest is wrapped in tight bonds of panic and fear as he watches the red seeping into his sheets. “Really bad.”

 

“Pete, I'm on call, I can't just… You need to call an ambu-”

 

“No!” It’s Pete’s turn to bark the word, the last thing he needs is the place swarming with fucking medics and cops. “Just… Please, dude, for me? Come over?”

 

“Okay,” Andy begins after an agonisingly long pause. “I’ll be with you in a couple minutes.”

 

The line cuts off and Pete feels his arm drop loosely to his side, the phone slipping from between feeble fingers to clatter against the floor. He’s wearing his hoodie, wearing his sneakers, he was about to leave, to slip out of the apartment and head down to the alleyway and watch the boys gather under the streetlight. But Patrick is _here_ , frightened and cold and covered in blood. He’s only seventeen, he reminds himself, seventeen and he’s been taking care of this kid. 

 

“I don’t know what to do,” Patrick whispers, the frantic note has gone from his voice, the adrenaline draining from him as he slumps, weak and shivering, against the bed. “Please… Just… He’s my best friend…”

 

Pete forces himself to take a deep breath, he’s the adult in this situation, he needs to do something, needs to focus and soothe the desperately terrified teen in front of him. He casts his mind back to boy scouts, to earning the first aid badge that he sewed proudly onto his sweater.

 

“Okay,” he squares his shoulders a little and moves to the bathroom, hunts for a clean towel and hands it to Patrick. “Just keep that pressed over his… Yeah, the biggest cut, right above his eye, keep the pressure up and the bleeding should… That’s right, just like that. My friend’s coming,” Patrick’s eyes snap to his burning with fury and betrayal, “No, no, it’s okay. He’s… He’s a doctor. He can help.”

 

Patrick nods silently, keeps pressing the towel to Brendon’s brow and murmuring to him softly, humming quietly under his breath, the notes catching and faltering on choked sobs. Pete paces anxiously, biting at his nails until his fingers bleed. Five minutes crawl by on the clock face, ten, approaching fifteen and the intercom buzzes. 

 

“Come straight up.”

 

Andy does, meeting him at the door with a brow creased with exhaustion and a rucksack of medical supplies. 

 

“Thank-”

 

“Bullshit,” Andy snaps, shoving past him with a glare. “If the kid’s that hurt he should be in the hospital. What the fuck are you _doing,_ Pete?”

 

Pete isn’t sure he knows as he closes the door and gestures in the direction of the bedroom. Andy’s demeanour softens as he crosses to the two boys, his professional and gentle bedside manner sliding smoothly into place as he rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands at the sink, snapping surgical gloves into place with practised ease.

 

“Hey,” he greets Patrick with a reassuring smile. “I’m Andy, I’m a friend of Pete’s. What’s happened?”

 

“I don’t know,” Patrick whispers hoarsely, shock has set in and he can barely speak around clattering teeth. “I just… Gabe… The car…”

 

“Okay, okay, don’t worry about it,” Andy soothes him gently. “What’s his name?”

 

“Brendon,” Patrick replies. “Is he… Is he gonna die?”

 

“Hey, Brendon, my name’s Andy, I’m a doctor. I’m just going to touch your face, okay?” Andy falls silent for a moment as he moves Brendon carefully onto his back, unzipping his hoodie and pressing gently at the various cuts and swollen places on his face and neck. “No, he’s not going to die. See, the thing is, heads have a _lot_ of blood vessels _really_ close to the surface, you know? So they bleed a _lot,_ even from pretty minor injuries. You’ve done a great job here, see how it’s already stopping?”

 

Andy continues to talk to both kids in a reassuring, gentle voice as he goes through his bag and produces bandages and dressings, sterile water and swabs. He checks Brendon’s pulse, shines a pen torch into his eyes and sets about cleaning and dressing his face. Once he’s patched him up a little the kid is starting to respond a little more, groaning and hissing with pain as Andy soothes him expertly. Pete continues to worry at his nails as he stands in the doorway and watches, observes the way Patrick holds Brendon’s hand, the tenderness as he rubs tiny circles into the skin with his thumb. 

 

Finally Andy sits back and wipes his brow with the back of his wrist, smiling at Patrick gently, “All done.”

 

“Is he… Is he okay?” Patrick asks. 

 

“He’ll be fine,” Andy assures him. “He’s going to have a hell of a headache in the morning so give him some Tylenol and plenty of rest. Is that an inhaler in your pocket?”

 

“No, I'm just really fucking happy to see you,” Patrick snaps weakly. Andy flicks a glance to Pete; he shrugs helplessly, at least a little reassured that Patrick can be a fucking asshole to someone other than him. After a beat or two of silence Patrick nods with an irritated huff.

 

“Are you paying to get that filled?” Patrick nods again. Andy sighs. “Okay, I need you to go to the clinic down on Chicago Avenue tomorrow, talk to Linda, she’ll fix you up. And you need an eye exam, you’ve been squinting the whole time I’ve been here. No, don’t shake your head at me, they can fix that for you at the clinic and Pete’s going to organise some glasses for you, you must have a permanent headache.”

 

Patrick scowls down at the comforter but he doesn’t argue. Andy apparently has the knack of quieting the permanent bad attitude. That and a healthy dose of shock. Pete sets about brewing coffee just for something to do, setting out three mugs as Andy packs his shit back into his bag. Patrick doesn’t move from Brendon’s side, curled up by the bed, fingers laced with the boy’s as he runs gentle fingers through his thick, dark hair. 

 

“I’m just… Coffee?” He offers weakly as Andy joins him in the kitchen with a frown.

 

“No, thank you,” Andy replies, voice tight and strained, dropping to a furious hiss once he’s reassured himself Patrick is still in the bedroom. “Pete what the _fuck_ are you _doing?”_

 

“I… He just showed up…” He trails off, staring down at the percolator, watching the liquid brewing dark and smokey. “It’s not like I went looking for him.”

 

Andy doesn’t need to know that he absolutely _was_ on his way to go looking for him. 

 

“How the _fuck_ did he know where you live?” Andy snarls. “Is he… Are you _fucking_ him? Tell me you’re not because he doesn’t look legal, he-”

 

“He’s seventeen,” Pete cuts him off angrily, voice forced low, layered with hurt and betrayal. “He’s legal. You _really_ think I’d fuck a kid?”

 

“So you _are_ fucking him? Jesus fucking _christ_ , Pete…” Andy rubs his hands over his beard as he stares at him in disappointed disbelief. “You're un-fucking-believable.”

 

“It was one time,” he snaps. Humiliation crawls over him, itching and dirty, as he recalls crisp bank notes fresh from the ATM, furious blue eyes, tight heat around his cock. “He said he was eighteen. He… He lied to me. I didn't do anything wrong.”

 

Aside from soliciting sex from someone under the age of eighteen. Automatic class 4 felony. Jail time. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Andy snorts derisively, sharp and judgemental as he glances back at Patrick. Pete follows his gaze and it's not fair—of _course_ he looks younger now he's pale and scared and drained of his arrogance. That's not the same kid Pete saw at the precinct, a stranger next to the Patrick that sang Prince to him in Millennium Park and it's... it's not a fair comparison dammit.

 

“Well they're _your_ responsibility now, genius,” Andy shrugs his jacket back on and swings his bag onto his shoulder. “The kid should be fine. Just make sure you can rouse him during the night and slip him some pain relief in the morning, call me if anything seems unusual. The other one—Patrick?—needs to go to the community clinic for an asthma inhaler and an eye exam. You're paying for his glasses, asshole.”

 

With that he's gone, the door swinging closed behind him with a click.

 

It takes them a while but between them he and Patrick manage to shuffle Brendon out of his filthy hoodie and jeans, somehow lifting and rolling him as they change the sheets around him. He leaves the two of them in his room as he loads the blood soaked sheets and clothes into his washer dryer, pausing to root through the clean laundry piled up on the counter for pajama pants and a faded AC/DC shirt. 

 

Patrick is still on the bed, Brendon seems to be sleeping, his ribs rising and falling in deep, regular breaths under the comforter. Patrick is sprawled out next to him, curled as close as he can without actually touching him, fingers still carding gently through Brendon’s hair.

 

“Uh… Hey,” he begins awkwardly. He doesn't know what to say, how to talk naturally to the kid, so he does the worst thing possible and starts talking to him like he's five and scraped his fucking knee. “So, I was wondering if you might be… Hungry? I could… I could make us something? D’you like pasta? And maybe you could… You could use the shower, if you want? I have pajamas and… I can wash your stuff.”

 

“I don’t need your fucking pity,” Patrick snarls, the words a punch to the gut. Pete wants to point out that if he doesn’t need his pity maybe he could take himself and his runaway friend and find someone else to take care of them. But he doesn’t, just holds out the clothes as he attempts to fight fire with fire. 

 

“Okay, fine, I’ll be honest. You fucking _reek_ and you’re covered in blood,” he shrugs, Patrick’s eyes flare with anger and embarrassment. “If you’re sleeping in my bed you could at least be polite enough to make sure you’re clean and that you don’t smell like ass.”

 

“I’m _not_ sleeping in-”

 

“Whatever, you can share the couch with me if you'd prefer,” he cuts him off sharply, he’s fucking _done_ with this kid’s attitude. He’s trying to fucking _help._ Does he have _any idea_ the risks he’s taking for them? “I’m not gonna complain. But either way, you’re taking a shower and putting on clean clothes because—seriously?—you fucking stink. Or were you just gonna leave him here with me?”

 

Patrick doesn’t reply as he rises to his feet, eyes narrowed into a furious scowl as he stalks across the room and snatches the clothes from Pete’s hand. He slams his way into the bathroom, the door thrown closed behind him and the lock smashed angrily into place. Within seconds the water is pounding loudly against the tiles, the elderly pipes groaning and creaking arthritically with the strain. Pete collapses down into the couch, his head in his hands as he carefully recites the facts of the situation to himself—two runaway teens, one of whom he’s paid for sex, and the other so badly beaten he can barely open his eyes are in his apartment. For a moment he questions every decision he’s made in his life that’s led him to this utterly fucking farcical point in time. _They’re your responsibility now, genius._ He’s so fucked.

 

By the time Patrick emerges, scrubbed clean and flushed a beautifully delicate shade of pink from the hot water, he’s thrown together a quick meal of pasta dressed with olive oil, garlic and pepper flakes, scraping over a little parmesan. He pushes a bowl into Patrick’s hands and takes a seat at the little table, gesturing for Patrick to join him. He does, slumping down into the chair and digging his fork into the pasta, shovelling it into his mouth like he’s starving. Pete wonders when the kid last ate a decent meal.

 

“Is that okay?” He asks quietly, smiling softly as Patrick simply nods and carries on cramming the food down. His hair is even longer than it was the last time he was in the apartment, close to touching the collar of his faded shirt, darkened by the water and sticking to his neck. Those pretty lips are slicked with olive oil, glistening temptingly. They'd look fucking incredible wrapped around the dark length of Pete's dick. He swallows heavily, pushes the thought aside as he feels a guilty flush creep across his cheeks. “You want a beer?”

 

“No,” Patrick shakes his head emphatically. “I don’t drink. Water would be good though.”

 

When the bowl is empty Patrick pushes it aside, chews his lower lip for a second before taking a breath and speaking hesitantly, “Thanks. I… I know I shouldn’t’ve brought him here I just… We don’t exactly have a lot of places to go, you know?”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Pete shrugs and fights the urge to wipe away a drop of water currently meandering down Patrick’s throat, to let his fingers linger against the soft skin of his neck for a moment above the soft flutter of his pulse, to cup his cheek and draw him in for a gentle, teasing kiss. He clears his throat, a pathetic little burst of noise. “Hey, do you want to watch some TV or something? Or did you want to get straight to sleep?”

 

“Could we maybe…” Patrick trails off, clearly flustered, a pretty blush creeping across his cheeks. Pete’s mind leaps to the basest of conclusions, crushed to dust as Patrick continues in a small voice. “Listen to some music? I haven’t listened to music in forever. Not really anyway.”

 

“Sure,” he gathers up the bowls, all business and distraction as he dumps them by the sink. “What do you like?”

 

Patrick shoots a glance between the AC/DC logo emblazoned across his own chest and The Misfits across Pete’s, sucking speculatively at his lower lip before asking, voice more hopeful than it has any right to be, “You got any Bowie?”

 

Pete, unsurprisingly, does not. But he does have that expensive cable package with a whole host of music stations right at his fingertips and within a few minutes they’re sprawled on the couch, VH1 playing what it promises is the _Definitive Elvis Costello Videography_ in the background. There are still no warm feet in his lap, no soft, blonde head resting against his shoulder as Patrick curls into the furthest corner of the couch, coffee cup cradled in his hands like a shield, but it’s nice. It eases the swirling crush of loneliness that’s consumed him for the last seven years as they talk shit about the station’s countdown, debating their own theories on which song will fall into the number one slot.

 

“So,” Pete begins softly when the coffee cup is empty. “Seventeen, huh?”

 

“Eighteen,” Patrick corrects absently, rubbing at his jaw as he keeps his attention focused on the TV screen. 

 

“Patrick Martin Stumph,” he continues quietly, blue eyes blaze into him, bright with shock. “Not eighteen until April, missing from his care placement since May. Is any of this sounding familiar, Patrick? Or are you gonna lie to me again?”

 

The silence is suffocating, thick with tension and unspoken accusation. Patrick glares down at the coffee table in silence, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he grinds his teeth, fist clenching and unclenching against his thigh. When he raises his eyes they shine with impotent, raging fury, his lips pulled taut and tight, fair brows drawn down low.

 

“What the _fuck_ does it have to do with you, you prissy fucking _bitch?”_ He snarls, each word a slap in the face, a bullet fired in anger, striking with unerring precision. Pete is _not_ a good man, he reminds himself bitterly, good men don’t fuck vulnerable kids for money. “You gonna pretend you wouldn’t’ve fucked me?”

 

“If I knew you were _seventeen-”_ Pete begins furiously, he’s not stupid, he knows it’s guilt that makes him angry, that makes him lash out. Dirty old man standing in shadows watching the boys gather like window dressing. Staggering back to his empty apartment drunk on lust and jacking off like the kid owes him something. Disgusting. _He’s disgusting._

 

“Oh _bullshit_ , motherfucker,” Patrick cuts him off, a raging fire of blind injustice, searing through Pete’s weak, pathetic protestations. In another life he’d have made a damn good lawyer. “You know how many cocks—that’s what we call you, you know, you’re just cocks to us—ask me my age? None. Seventeen, eighteen, you assholes don’t give a fuck.”

 

“I wanted you someplace safe,” he protests but it sounds hollow, rings with untruth. “I wanted you warm and fed and… fucking _safe,_ okay?”

 

“You wanted to fuck me,” Patrick laughs bitterly, leaning back into the cushions with a defeated shrug. “Same as the others.”

 

“And yet here you are,” Pete shrugs nonchalantly as guilt and anger war in his chest. How dare this kid sit in his home and strike at each flaw, each weakness with unerring precision. “Watching _my_ TV, eating _my_ food, enjoying _my_ hospitality.”

 

“I don’t know a lot of people,” Patrick snaps before running his hands over his face with a defeated sigh. He looks so vulnerable, so young and broken. “I’m… I’m sorry, okay? I’m not exactly gonna rush to tell anyone what we did if that's what you're worried about.”

 

The apology is hollow, weighed down with the unspoken truth that Patrick needs him, needs him to keep Brendon safe for the night or it’s hospital and back to the orphanage. It’s not a nice feeling, being the subject of unwilling dependance, needed but still reviled. Feigned platitudes, insincere words. Just like Adam. Maybe that’s all he really deserves.

 

“Is there anything else I need to know?” He asks although he’s almost terrified of the answer, scared in a way that makes his gut cramp because he has no doubt whatsoever that this kid has a closet so stuffed full of skeletons they could engulf them both.

 

“No,” Patrick bites out aggressively, “Nothing else. I'm going to sleep.”

 

With that he hauls himself off the couch and pads into the bedroom with Brendon, pajama pants sliding low on his hips, the door closing softly behind him. There's the creak of the loose floorboard by his bed, the squeak of the bed frame and then silence save for Watching The Detectives still playing quietly in the background. Pete sighs and stands, grabs Patrick’s dirty clothes from the bathroom and tosses them into the washer dryer, adds soap and fabric softener and leaves the machine to work it’s magic. He shrugs out of his hoodie and kicks off his sneakers, leaning back on the couch with a cold beer and a heavy heart. For the first time in weeks he slumps swiftly into a deep, dreamless sleep, the TV still playing quietly in the background and bathing the room in flickering shadows.

 

He starts into wakefulness with a panicked jolt. The TV has clicked off leaving the room dark, bathed only in the synthetic orange glow of the streetlights outside. With a sharp frisson of panic he realises that there’s someone else in the room, padding stealthily past the kitchen counter.

 

“Who the fuck-”

 

“Shhh,” Patrick whispers softly, Pete feels his heart slow slightly against his ribs as he recalls the night’s events. It’s okay, it’s just Patrick, nothing to worry about, probably just looking for a glass of water or something. 

 

“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me,” he attempts to sit up but Patrick shoves him back down into the couch with a firm, warm hand against the centre of his chest, skin igniting sparks straight into his suddenly pounding heart. He squints at him in confusion as he slips onto the couch, kneeling between his legs. “What're you-”

 

“Be quiet,” Patrick voice is low and sultry, a verbal caress. Pete nods silently and leans back onto the cushions.

 

Warm hands pause at his belt buckle, deft fingers tugging expertly, the room alive with the sound of the metallic click of the prong against the frame, the soft scrape of metal against denim as the button of his jeans is popped, the click of his zipper lowering. He’s still half asleep but his cock rouses quickly, blood rushing to his groin as Patrick slips a soft hand inside his shorts. He should stop him, should push him away and reaches out to do just that. It coincides beautifully with Patrick dragging his thumb slowly over the head of his prick, Pete gasps, head falling back against the couch as he arches upward, any objection lost to blissful sensation.

 

“Fuck,” He hisses between clenched teeth, hips bucking upward.

 

_“Shh!”_ Patrick repeats, a little more emphatically, pressing a finger to Pete’s lips. He grabs Patrick’s wrist, parts his lips and sucks that finger into his mouth, sliding his tongue around it as he tastes the faint tang of salt and skin, teasing at the tip and revelling in the short groan that bursts from Patrick’s lips. “That’s what you want, huh? You want me to suck on your dick?”

 

“Patrick, wait,” he gasps, fumbling to sit, to stop, to roll away. Patrick braces his full weight against his hips, dips his head and Pete is lost, back arching as Patrick runs his tongue slowly up the length of his cock, a hot, wet slick of soft, warm tongue. “Holy fucking _shit_ …”

 

Patrick teases the head of Pete’s dick with infuriatingly slow, swirling licks, hands working his tight jeans down to his calves with practised ease. He twists his fingers into Patrick’s sleep-mussed hair, tangling them amongst the soft blonde strands as he urges him down onto his cock. Patrick moans as he takes him down—a sweet little burst of noise that soars, weightless, over Pete’s ragged breathing—for all the world as though he’s never wanted to do anything more than he wants to suck on Pete’s dick. 

 

Pete arches his back, knees falling apart as Patrick crawls closer, delicious little snuffling whimpers and groans falling from his pretty pink lips. He’s overwhelmed with the sensation of a hot, wet mouth—Patrick’s hot, wet mouth—wrapped around him, of the slippery fingertip pressing teasingly against the tight pucker of his ass. He’s never been one for ridiculous clichés but those are definitely fireworks—stars, fucking _galaxies_ , collapsing supernovae and dying suns—exploding in burning bursts of colour, sultry reds and burning yellows and bright, blinding white, behind his closed eyelids. He’s lightheaded and coiled tight as he writhes with a slack jaw and clumsy, uncoordinated limbs against the couch, it’s all at once too much and not enough, he should stop the kid, drag him closer, flip him onto the couch and fuck him raw… 

 

Declarations of adulation misfire somewhere between the beautiful words dancing in his mind, the charming and lyrical proclamations reduced to strangled gasps and thickened groans that stumble over the weight of his tongue and clumsy lips, “Fuck that's… You're so good… You’re _so fucking good_ …”

 

Patrick swirls his tongue against his shaft on each easy bob down his length, pausing to suck deep before sliding back up to flicker his tongue against the sensitive head, teasing into the slit as he presses his finger in deeper. Pete cries out—a hoarse bark of _fuck yeah_ —as he grazes against that sensitive spot inside of him, rubbing gently in time with the motions of his sinful lips and talented tongue. 

 

If he weren’t so completely mindless with the all-consuming, enveloping sensation, if he retained even a shred of self-awareness beyond the hot, wet mouth and sweet, teasing finger currently assaulting him he may have the sense of self to be embarrassed. If he were capable of acknowledging anything beyond the warm, solid body between his legs or silk-soft hair under his hands then he might feel a flicker self-consciousness as his orgasm crashes through him after a humiliatingly short length of time. As it is, he can only pull Patrick down a little harder, enough to feel his cock nudge the back of his throat as he starts to come, hot and pulsing, down Patrick's throat. 

 

“Holy fucking _shit,_ Patrick, Patrick, _Patrick,”_ he groans, frenzied with mindless need as Patrick sucks him through it and keeps feathering his prostate with the finger still deep inside of him, his hips thrusting weakly through the all-consuming haze. He chants nonsense, thrusts and bucks and cries out hoarsely, stomach clenching and thighs tense as he begs for it to never end, to never stop. It abates slowly, the roll of the tide retreating, each muscle relaxing in turn as he collapses back onto the couch with a deep sigh.

 

“Pretty good, right?” Patrick’s voice sparkles with laughter, amusement catching at the edges like driftwood as he rises back to his knees and squeezes Pete’s thighs gently. “Like, I don’t want to fucking _brag_ or anything, but I’m pretty fucking _amazing_ at sucking dick.”

 

“Shut up,” Pete whispers affectionately, grabbing Patrick by the collar and pulling him down on top of him. His voice is soft—dreamy and delicate—as he murmurs into Patrick’s ear in the split second before their lips touch. “You talk _way_ too much.”

 

He can taste himself on Patrick’s lips as he sucks desperately at his tongue and licks into the soft crevices of his mouth. He’s insane with the need to take the kid apart, to deconstruct him in the most immoral of ways, the same ways Patrick has torn him down. He snakes a hand into soft cotton pajama pants, pausing before he wraps it around the thick, burning heat of Patrick’s cock to murmur quietly against fuck-flushed lips, “Can I?”

 

“Fuck yeah you can,” Patrick moans, sliding up higher and sweeter as Pete slips his hand low around the base and pulls up to the tip, slow and smooth. Patrick's cock is impossibly hard, hot and satin smooth against his palm as he gives a couple of languorous pumps of his fist. _“Motherfucker…”_

 

“Good?” He murmurs innocently, mouth against the velvet softness of Patrick’s earlobe, a muted hiss dragging from sugar plump lips as he catches it lightly between his teeth. A quick tug, a teasing little suck on skin like sun-warmed silk and Patrick melts into him like whispered promises. “Fuck, you’re incredible, you know that? Fucking _gorgeous._ Tight little ass, big hard cock, you’re just… God, I want to fuck you ‘til you can’t remember your fucking _name,_ you ever had your ass eaten? Fuck, could bend you over the couch and just…”

 

“Should never have let you come,” Patrick whispers, hips rolling into Pete’s fist. He presses his thumb firmly to the underside of Patrick’s cock on each upward stroke, twists his wrist with a flourished flick that has him gasping against his lips. He wants to reduce him down to nothing, until every guy that’s fucked him first doesn’t matter, until the only name he knows is _Pete_. “Fuck, I should’ve… Should’ve fucking pinned you down and… Fuck, could’ve… Shit...”

 

“You’d fuck me?” He growls into Patrick’s ear, pausing to pepper biting kisses along the kid’s throat, the musk of his skin intoxicating. Patrick can’t string a sentence together, forehead dropped to Pete’s shoulder. _He’s_ done this to him, _he’s_ reduced him to nothing more than mumbled half-words and delicious sensation. “Just ride my dick and fuck me into the couch? That what you’d like, Patrick?”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick’s voice is no more than a strangled whimper, fingers digging into Pete’s hair like he’ll never let go, lips soft and sweet as honey brushing feather soft against his jaw. “Fuck yeah I would. Fucking _love_ your cock, so fucking good…”

 

Pete shoves him, urges him, flips them over so that Patrick is pinned beneath him, hands curled into loose fists by his head as he arches up with a breathy moan, wrists caught in Pete’s handspan and pushed down into the cushions. He’s breathtaking, Pete decides, pale skin illuminated by the streetlights and glowing gold, plump lower lip bitten hard, chest heaving and head tossed back exposing the sweeping curve of his throat. He drags his tongue from Patrick’s collarbone, exposed by the stretched out neckline of his shirt, up and across the delicate hollow of his throat and there’s soft skin everywhere—Patrick’s cock in his hand, thighs against his, his pulse fluttering under his tongue. Pale skin, blood-hot. He nips at the shell of his ear and growls low in his throat, “Next time… Fuck, next time I’ll…”

 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Patrick groans, the words sending a delicious cramp through Pete’s gut, his spent cock twitching between their bodies. “Suck... Suck my cock, fuck _please_ , just.. I want… _Please_ …”

 

Pete hesitates but only for the briefest of moments then he’s nodding, slipping down between Patrick’s thighs and sliding his mouth down over the thick, hard column of his prick. Patrick whimpers high in the back of his throat as he draws up his knees, fingers tight and hard in Pete’s hair as he rocks his hips up into his mouth. Pete has only a moment or two to consider the situation, to ponder the places Patrick’s cock may have been before those thoughts are swept away by the overwhelming sensation of velvet soft skin stretched over hard, heated flesh, the taste of come and skin and fresh sweat with topnotes of his own body wash sharp on his tongue.

 

“Pete, oh _fuck_ , Pete,” Patrick cries out, body pulling tense and taut beneath him as he starts to come, Pete’s mouth filled with the bitter flood of it, the tang of salt and sin. He watches him come, watches his face contort with it, sucks and swallows down each burst and taste. He presses strong hands against milk-pale hips as he takes everything Patrick gives him and demands more with each pull of his lips. This is what Patrick wants, Pete decides, this is what he needs, what he _craves_. 

 

He carries on until Patrick pushes him back with a gusting, satisfied sigh, his body relaxing down into the cushions. For a moment, he rests his cheek against Patrick’s thigh, traces looping patterns against his stomach, fingertips trailing through soft, fine hair. He glances up with a lazy grin, nuzzling a teasing kiss to Patrick’s softening cock, “You don’t have the monopoly on giving good head.”

 

“Fuck,” Patrick groans. He assumes that’s a sentiment of agreement and struggles to his feet, intent on kicking off his jeans and curling back up on the couch. His wallet bounces from his pocket to the floor and he stoops to retrieve it, absentmindedly reaching to drop it onto the coffee table. He freezes as Patrick continues with a low laugh. “Shit, dude, _seriously?_ I’m not gonna charge you for tonight, that was on the house. Just… Saying thanks, I guess.”

 

Pete stands, jeans still around his ankles, soft cock on display under the hem of his shirt as he stares at Patrick with a breath sucked in so sharply it’s like the kid punched him square in the gut. _A thank you_. Of course. He deals in sex—it’s his fucking _currency_ —Pete blinks back sharp, stinging tears and tries not to feel stupid, stupid, _fucking stupid_. 

 

“You okay?” Patrick asks casually, pulling his pajama pants back up. No, he really fucking _isn’t_ okay. 

 

“Go back to bed,” he snaps, dragging his jeans up and pacing into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, sick with the need to give his hands something to do before he punches a hole straight through the wall. 

 

“Dude, what’s-”

 

“Just go back to bed, Patrick,” he hisses between teeth clenched tight with rage, hurling the glass against the wall in an explosion of splinters of pain and regret. He doesn’t know if it’s anger or humiliation flowing most strongly through his veins, just knows it curls through him, cold rage layered with heated mortification. He’s the very definition of pathetic—granted pity sex by a teenage hooker. 

 

Patrick is scowling once more as he shoves to his feet, pauses to throw a final glare over his shoulder, a muted snarl of _fuck you, asshole,_ before slamming the bedroom door shut behind him. 

 

Pete reaches into the cabinet for his Ativan with hands that tremble wildly. It didn’t mean anything, he reminds himself, the kid was just saying thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are _infuriating_ right?
> 
> I have a new fic going, Pretty In Punk, if you want to see the boys as 80s hardcore punks in plaid pants and suspenders then it's absolutely the place for you!
> 
> So, do you know what motivates writers to keep writing? Feedback. Just a quick note to let me know what you think, even if you just want to tell me what I'm a horrible human being, I can totally get behind that with you. The kudos button is nice, too.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr - sn1tchesandtalkers (yep, that's a 1 instead of an i because I grew up when that was cool, okay?) - so feel free to say hi.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome back! Let's see if these two assholes can get anything right this week...

Patrick doesn’t like the social worker from the moment they’re introduced. He doesn’t like the trying too hard to be cool dyed black hair, doesn’t like the overly familiar smile, doesn’t like the patronising handshake or the ridiculous _don’t call me Mr Way, we’re friends, you can call me Gerard_.

Most of all, he doesn’t like the way Brendon seemed almost excited as they laid together in Pete’s bed the night before. He _hates_ the way he chattered endless nervous questions about where Patrick thought he might end up, if the foster family would have other kids, what, where, when, how…

_Shut the fuck up, you whiny little bitch_ , he’d hissed eventually and - okay, fine - he’d felt bad as Brendon’s eyes sprang wide with hurt, as his mouth flattened and twitched down at the corners and his breathing wobbled like he was trying not to cry. It isn’t like he’s upset Brendon’s going to be taken care of, he assures himself with another crippling pang of guilt, he’s just humiliated it isn’t him doing it. He promised Brendon so much, swore to him he’d never have to go back into another placement and yet Patrick's done such a shitty job of taking care of them he's actually looking forward to it. 

“So, Patrick,” Gerard addresses him with concern that fires fury in Patrick’s belly, makes him want to start hurling things around Pete’s apartment but he tempers it with fingernails pressed tight into his palm. “What are we going to do with _you?”_

“You’re not doing shit with me,” Patrick leans back against the couch and raises his chin defiantly. “I’m eighteen in a couple months, I don’t need your help.”

“Patrick, you’re seventeen,” Pete interjects, that fucking traitorous motherfucker. He’s been weird ever since they fooled around on the couch, refusing to speak to him, leaving the room whenever Patrick walks into it which is just fucking _challenging_ in an apartment with four rooms including the bathroom. Sometimes, when the three of them sit in silence watching the TV, he catches Pete looking at him with something he doesn’t understand burning in his amber eyes. It’s something between hatred and desire, some finely balanced emotion that Patrick doesn’t fully comprehend but that makes his stomach tingle with nervous energy.

“Who the fuck asked you?” He snaps, kicking sharply at the coffee table and earning a disapproving stare from Gerard. “You’re not my fucking father.”

“Well maybe someone needs to start acting as though they are,” Pete’s voice is tight with anger, with that same balance of loathing and tenderness. “You’re just a kid.”

He certainly didn’t seem to think that three nights previously, his hand around Patrick’s cock while he whispered filth into his ear. Patrick still doesn’t understand what the fuck he did wrong that night, can’t work out how they went from having a good time to Pete turning cold and angry and ordering him back to bed like he’d refused to eat his mashed potatoes at dinner. He’d laid next to Brendon—cock still half hard—and burned with shame and confusion, heartbroken that his clumsy attempt to show Pete he cared had been knocked back so cruelly. It still makes no sense but regret—and Patrick could write a fucking book on _regret_ —is no justification for behaving like a pompous, condescending asshole.

“Call me a kid _one more time_ , motherfucker, I swear to God-”

“Sit down and stop acting like a petulant fucking child,” Pete growls. “I’m sorry, Gee. The kid’s a fucking asshole, you’re wasting your time with him.”

Pete has reassured him the social worker is safe. A college buddy of his, they’ve been good friends for years and he's come to help Brendon as a special favour. He wouldn’t ask questions, Pete promised him, staring past Patrick to look out of the window like the very sight of him made his skin crawl.

“‘Trick, maybe we could get placed together,” Brendon begins softly, reaching for Patrick’s hand. He snatches it back and crosses his arms obstinately and tries his best to ignore the pain that flashes across Brendon’s face. “I just thought…”

“Just fucking _don’t,”_ he snaps. Everyone is pushing in on him, he’s made all of the decisions for seven months and this… It’s too much, it’s too fucking much. “If you try and push me into a placement I swear to God I’ll leave right now and not one of you motherfuckers will ever see me again.”

“Well _that_ would suck,” Pete mutters sarcastically under his breath. Patrick tenses sharply, feels those ridiculous tears burn the back of his throat—no one wants him, no one has _ever_ wanted him. “Can we just focus on Brendon for a minute?”

“Yeah,” Gerard looks uneasy but he flips through the folder in front of him with a frown. To his credit he’s done a great job of not asking too many questions including but not limited to _what the fuck were you thinking taking a fourteen year old out of his placement_ and _why the fuck is his face covered in surgical tape and bruises_. “You’re gonna really like the Toros, they’re a wonderful family…”

Patrick zones out as they talk amongst themselves, discussing Brendon’s placement and enrolling him back in school. All too soon Brendon is ushered through into the bedroom to pack the few things he has with him and Patrick follows, closing the door behind them.

“You’re really going?” He asks softly, leaning back against the wall.

“I have to,” Brendon shrugs, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “They won’t let me stay with you, dude.”

“You don’t have to look so fucking happy about it,” hurt and rejection lace his voice, hang heavy in his chest and make it hard to breathe easily. He rubs at his eyes and his wrist comes away damp—it’s just the fact he needs his glasses, he tells himself, nothing more than that. “It’s just been you and me and now…”

“You could come,” Brendon offers once more, as though it’s up to him, as though he can open someone else’s home to a scruffy, angry seventeen year old. 

“Nah,” Patrick shrugs and fiddles absently with the hem of his shirt—the AC/DC one Pete gave him to sleep in that first night—rolling the cotton gently between his fingertips. It still smells faintly of fabric softener which means it smells a little like Pete. “I meant what I said, I’m not going back. I won’t just fucking… pussy out of everything.”

“Oh,” Brendon’s lips twist into a circle as he stares down at the comforter. “Are you gonna stay here? With Pete?”

“Nope,” Patrick shakes his head, lets the anger bubble over into spiteful words designed to hurt, to pull Brendon down to where it aches, to where Patrick is curled defensively. “Now I don’t have _you_ holding me back I can get a job, get that apartment. Jesus fucking _Christ,_ I don’t know why the fuck I thought bringing you was a good idea, you’re just… A fucking _liability,_ you know?”

“W-what?” Brendon’s eyes flood with pain for a moment before they fire with anger as he squares his shoulders—something he’s learnt from Patrick. “Yeah? Okay then, well I guess I can actually sleep in a bed for once, eat some real fucking food with people that can actually take care of themselves, not fucking losers like _you.”_

He grabs his bag and heads towards Patrick—but it’s not towards _Patrick_ , not really, he’s just heading towards the door—pausing a foot or so away, “And Patrick? Be a little fucking _nicer_ to Pete, yeah? He’s a nice guy, I like him. In fact maybe you could try being a little fucking nicer to just about everybody.”

WIth that he’s gone, back into the living room and within a couple of minutes Patrick hears them saying goodbye, hears the front door click and hears Pete’s footsteps across the living room. He won’t cry. He won’t fucking cry. Fuck Brendon. Fuck Gerard. Fuck Pete and Gabe and Will and just… fuck _everyone_.

“Patrick?” Pete calls from the living room, his voice tired and resigned. “Come on, man. We need to go to the clinic.”

He doesn’t move, temple pressed to the cool wall, breathing quick and shallow. A car fires into life on the street and he wonders if it’s Gerard’s, whisking Brendon away. The kid pisses him off most of the time but he’s been the only constant in his life, the only solid and dependable thing—placements may change, carers might quit and move on but there’s always been Brendon. He realises with a sharp jolt of panic that this will be the first night they’ve spent under different roofs in seven years.

“Patrick?” Pete is in the room, exasperation oozing from every pore and Patrick just wants to curl in on himself, wants to fold himself away where he can’t bother anyone and where he can’t get hurt. Pete’s voice is like a gunshot, like a battle cry that pounds through him and crashes through each carefully built defence, each floodgate pinning back the tears that threaten to suffocate him. “We need to go, I’m not wasting a fucking personal day to… Oh. You’re crying? I… Are you… Oh, shit… C’mere, man...”

He’s dragged against Pete’s chest, crushed by strong arms to soft cotton scented with cologne and skin. Every instinct screams at him to drag back, to shove away from Pete because this is too much, he’s giving too much away. Instead he presses closer, lets the tears flow and soak Pete’s shirt, lets him guide him to the bed and pull him down onto the mattress, to tangle their legs together as Pete strokes his hair and kisses the top of his head. There are murmured reassurances, gentle kindness that Patrick’s never received from anyone other than Brendon but there’s something different about it, something he doesn’t understand and can’t begin to place. 

He sobs. He cries like he’ll never stop, like the tears will bring Brendon back, like they’ll take away the humiliation of selling himself, the fear struck deep by Gabe and hard fists. He cries because he misses things he never had and things he supposes he’ll never get. In between the sobs are pointless words, half gasps of names and apologies and mumbled ragged sentences that lose all structure on their way to his lips. Pete just holds him as though he can keep him together, as though he knows he’s everything that binds him and stops him shattering to nothing but dust that would drift and scatter.

Eventually, the tears slow to hiccups and hitching breaths, his throat raw and his eyes sore and swollen. He should be embarrassed but he’s not, just wants to stay, held close and safe and listen to Pete breathing, to feel his chest expand and fall with each breath and let his own respiration fall into the same pattern. Pete presses a final tender kiss to his sweat-damp brow.

“We should really get to the clinic,” Pete repeats, hands soft against his hair. There’s a note of something in his voice, some need and longing that Patrick can only hope is directed towards him. There’s an overpowering urge slamming in his chest to look up, to crane his neck just a little and press his lips flush to Pete’s, to tangle his fingers in those impeccably straightened bangs and drag him close. But Pete pushes to his feet and the moment is lost in a fumble of shirts being adjusted and jackets slung on as they head to the door.

“Can I maybe… Stay again tonight?” He asks softly as Pete locks the door behind them. Pete smiles fondly, a small twist of his lips as he slings an arm around Patrick and squeezes him close.

“Stay as long as you need.”

***

Patrick stays. He stays because he tells himself he has nowhere else to go but that’s not strictly true and besides, not having a plan never stopped him before. Patrick stays because something about the apartment feels right. Patrick stays because he’s lived in countless rooms in countless houses and orphanages over the course of his life but none of those have felt safe in quite the same way as Pete’s little collection of rooms does.

Pete is different, he decides, Pete treats him like an adult and doesn’t talk to him like he’s an idiot. Pete pays attention to the important things and ignores the stupid, dumb shit that doesn’t matter. He doesn’t get mad about a towel on the bathroom floor or a cereal bowl left in the sink and not stacked in the dishwasher. 

So, Patrick stays and he gets to know Pete. He discovers Pete has a completely ridiculous love for completely ridiculous metal bands and that no, the Metallica shirt absolutely isn’t ironic, in fact he owns several. He learns that Pete likes fantasy TV shows and doesn’t get mad when Patrick interrupts the terrible plot lines to call out how utterly fucking dumb as shit they actually are. He finds out Pete is the eldest of three kids, sees pictures of his parents and listens to him talk on the phone to his mom. He likes how they speak to one another, the easy conversation, the gentle teasing, the delicate thread of love that binds them together.

Patrick spends a week lounging around watching box sets of shows he wasn’t allowed to see at the orphanage, eating cereal that’s more sugar than any other staple ingredient and wearing Pete’s clothes. There are late night conversations before he retreats to a bed and sheets that smell of Pete while Pete stretches out of on the couch. There are pizza boxes and cartons of Chinese food, there’s laughter and, occasionally, lingering looks from amber eyes that make Patrick shiver in the way he’d daydreamed about. A day turns to two, two to three, then a week and neither of them have made any effort for Patrick to find someplace else to be.

“You like them?” Pete asks cautiously as they sit on the couch eating pad thai and watching reruns of Buffy. Patrick reaches up and touches the frames lightly with a smile—they were the cheapest ones in the store, Buddy Holly style black plastic with a tiny silver detail at each brow. But he loves them and more than that the headache is easing as his eyes adjust and he can relax and stop the constant fucking squinting.

“Yeah,” he grins, a sly little curl of his lips as he runs his eyes over Pete from top to bottom and back again, taking in each inch of his body. It’s a filthy look, laden with sin and desire, the slow drag of his tongue over his lower lip enough to have Pete biting off a groan. “You know what?”

“What?” Pete clears his throat awkwardly as Patrick leans a little closer, hand light against his chest as he smiles at him innocently. He can feel the thud of Pete’s heart under his palm, the sharp jerk of his chest as his breathing quickens.

“Now I can see clearly,” Patrick breathes the words, a breathless little moan of noise that slides over his lips, decadent and rich. Pete holds his breath and Patrick pauses, blinks up at him coquettishly and smiles, a slow, sensual curve of his lips as he leans in, his breath hot and damp against Pete’s ear. “You’re actually really fucking ugly…”

“Oh, fuck you,” Pete grins that wide, goofy grin that makes Patrick’s stomach flip a little, a laugh bursting from him as Pete shoves him back and into the couch cushions. “Asshole.”

Cautiously, he stretches out on the couch and slides his bare feet onto Pete’s lap, aware that hopefulness and need are shining from him, that he glows with it. Pete doesn’t look at him, barely reacts beyond a slow smile as, eyes still on the screen, he reaches down and curls his hand around Patrick’s ankle. Pete’s skin is warm, a little rough, his grasp protective and firm as he traces the pad of his thumb in a ticklish swirl across the arch of Patrick’s foot. This is nice, Patrick decides, this is comforting and reassuring and everything he’s never had. He has no idea _how_ it’s going to work, but he knows he doesn’t want to leave, that he feels warm and safe around Pete in a way he hasn’t felt in such a very long time.

“You should think about going back,” Pete nods towards the screen where the Scooby Gang gather in the library. “To school, you know? Get your diploma. You’re smart, you could go to college.”

“Yeah?” Patrick murmurs lazily and for once doesn’t bend to the urge to point out that Pete is a fucking idiot and that college isn’t for people like him. He just smiles as Pete squeezes his foot softly and he wonders how it might be to sit like this with a textbook whilst Pete deals with his paperwork. Companionable silence as they go about their tasks, a gentle hand straying here and there, brushing a cheek or carding through hair. “Maybe.”

“Patrick?” Pete’s voice is an awkward burst of noise, vocals over a score of eyes that won’t meet Patrick’s and hands that move in restless motions over his lap. “Why… What made you leave? Your placement?”

Patrick thinks for a long moment, staring at the screen without taking anything in. So many reasons, so many justifications for snatching up that backpack and never looking back. But, with Pete’s amber eyes soft with concern and tears threatening to fall that he doesn’t want to discuss, he supposes he should start with the easiest.

“When did you come out?” He asks, hands cradled around the warmth of his cup. He doesn’t like coffee, so Pete bought him cocoa. No one’s ever asked if he likes something or not, the gesture makes his eyes sting a little when he thinks about it. 

“I dunno,” Pete shrugs and squints with thought for a moment. “I was maybe… I mean, I knew from being about nine but… I think I was fourteen when I told my mom.”

“How’d that go?” Patrick trails his thumb through the swirl of foam that lingers on top of his lukewarm drink. 

“She was great,” Pete shrugs. “She told me whoever I loved would be lucky to have me. Dad was… A little weird at first. But I think we’re cool now, you know. Why?”

“I was too scared to come out,” he bites his lip as he swirls the rich hot chocolate around the cup, watches it roll and colour the sides briefly before sliding back to white. “I… I didn’t want to get the shit kicked out of me. I figured it out when I was twelve and it doesn’t _matter_ then, you know? You jerk off in the shower like a normal kid and no one would know if you were thinking about Buffy or Angel. But when I got older and I wanted… I wanted _so badly_ to just…”

He trails off and bites his thumb nail. Pete doesn’t speak - Patrick decides he quite likes that about Pete. He _listens._

“There was one guy, one of the care assistants,” he smiles a little as he speaks. “He knew. He would… Sometimes he’d get me comic books or records if I’d let him watch me in the shower. I think that’s why the whole… You know… _Thing_ with the sex for money didn’t seem that weird.”

“Patrick,” Pete cuts in softly, his voice fired with fury. “That’s… It’s fucking _abuse!_ What the… What the _fuck?”_

“Oh, he never touched me,” Patrick rolls his eyes. It’s sweet of Pete to get defensive but really now, letting some fucking weirdo watch him touch himself in exchange for a few gifts really doesn’t seem so bad. They never touched one another, that was the deal, that was the rule, it was just… It was harmless. It didn’t harm anyone. It didn’t harm _him_. “But that got me thinking, it got me… I didn’t _want_ to wait until I was eighteen to be me. I wanted to… I wanted to just _make out_ with someone and not have it be some huge _thing_ , you know? I wanted to get fucked, I wanted to… I wanted to be normal.”

Pete stays silent, lips thin and eyes burning bright and heated with barely repressed rage. Slowly, he runs his thumb over the arch of Patrick’s foot. Patrick twitches, ticklish, a low laugh rising in his chest that turns to a deep sigh as Pete begins to rub firmly. He’s soft and pliant, body stretched out in blissful warmth as Pete whispers quietly, “You’re okay now. That’s what matters.”

Later, when the TV show has finished and Pete is yawning and blinking heavily, Patrick stretches, feels Pete’s eyes on him as his shirt rides up and his pajama pants slip down a little. Amber eyes linger just a little too long on pale skin dusted with dark blonde hair, he can feel them undressing him, a spark of heat curling through his stomach and down into his groin as his cock stirs a little. That look—the hungry gaze that speaks of want and forbidden desire—the look he’s seen hundreds of times before but this times it’s different, this time he _wants_ it, makes him bold, his voice low as he watches Pete watching him.

“Why don’t we share the bed tonight?” He asks softly, Pete’s face flushes with panic for a moment and Patrick bristles with the unfairness of it. Why can’t it just be _easy?_ “We don’t have to do anything,” he rushes to reassure him, aware he’s heard those words before, falling from Pete’s lips in gentle reassurance, “We could just…”

“Cuddle?” Pete offers with a charming grin. Patrick isn’t stupid enough not to realise that he’s being made fun of but actually, cuddling sounds sort of… Nice. He nods eagerly and reaches for Pete’s hand, squeezing gently.

“Cuddling sounds pretty good,” Pete squeezes back but looks dubious. “Look, I know I’m fucking _irresistible_ or whatever, seriously, but I’ve shared a bed since May and it’s weird being alone… You don’t _actually_ have to touch me. Just…” Hope gives way to realisation then anger. He’s begging for a hug, what the fuck is _wrong_ with him. He scowls and pulls his knees back up to his chest, rolling his eyes with a snarl, “Fuck, this is pathetic. Forget it.”

“No. Don't be like that… Okay,” Pete lets out a long breath and bites briefly at his lower lip before nodding uncertainly. “I mean… I guess it would be nice to sleep in the bed. My back’s fucking _killing_ me…”

Patrick just nods, forces himself to stay quiet although the urge to tell Pete to forget it, he doesn’t need _pity,_ burns bright on his tongue—his mouth has a terrible habit of talking him out of good things. He brushes his teeth with the toothbrush Pete bought him and slips into the bed, waits in silence as he hears Pete moving around the bathroom, checking the door is locked, switching off the TV. The lights click out and the room falls into gloom, the glow of the streetlights barely penetrating the curtains. The bed dips and shifts behind him, a blast of cool air down his back as Pete slips under the covers. For a long minute, neither move, the room is dark and silent and scored only by their breathing. Finally, Patrick feels a hesitant hand on his hip, a palm skimming softly over his skin as Pete curls into his back.

“Never realised how comfortable the bed is,” Pete mumbles sleepily against his neck, a burst of warm breath against his skin. Patrick sighs and leans back into him, rests his hand lightly atop Pete’s against his stomach. This is what it might be like if someone cared, it makes his chest ache and his throat sting and he swears he won’t fucking cry. He hasn’t cried in _months_ but recently he’s been sobbing like a fucking bitch every couple of days. He bites his lip to fend off the tears and the ridiculous urge to tell Pete he loves him. He _doesn’t_ fucking love him, he just isn’t used to being this close to someone, it’s just a ridiculous crush.

“Hope you don’t snore, asshole,” Patrick whispers into the dark instead of spilling stupid, childish words like a desperate, heartsick kid. Pete chuckles softly into his ear and brushes a tender kiss to the delicate shell of it, a whispered suggestion of soft, warm lips that has Patrick shivering in frustrated delight.

“Goodnight, ‘Trick,” Pete murmurs, tucking his nose into the hollow of Patrick's throat, neither of them acknowledging the fact that he's hard, the hot, pulsing press of it solid against Patrick's ass.

“Night,” he sighs with a yawn, squeezing the hand that rests an inch above the front of his pajama pants and the aching strain of his own stiff cock. _Stupid,_ he thinks to himself as he closes his eyes, _we’re both so fucking dumb_. But sleep comes easily, restful and dreamless, held safe and secure in a way that feels utterly, incomparably like coming home.

He wakes slowly to weak December sunlight filtering through the curtains, his arm groping blindly across the bed. It’s cold, empty, the same as it has been every morning for the past week. For a moment—a lurching, disoriented second—Patrick wonders if he imagined it, if it was just some ridiculous dream conjured up from loneliness and need. The note propped on the nightstand in his blurred line of vision would seem to suggest otherwise and he reaches for it with fingers clumsy with sleep.

_Good morning you lazy bastard! I tried to wake you four times so I figure you’re either tired or dead. You look pretty pink though so I think we’re good. You know where there’s shit to eat and I’m pretty sure you’re toilet trained just try not to burn the apartment building down and we’ll be good. Should be home early so maybe we’ll go to the movies or something. Fuck am I writing you a note? Seriously shithead DO NOT burn down my apartment. Pete x_

He struggles up against the headboard and fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand, the words pulling into sharp focus as he reads them again with a pounding heart, a third time with a blissful lurch in his stomach. The movies. That’s a date, it has to be a date, can’t be anything _but_ a goddamn date and he thrills with the excitement of it. He’s never been on a date before but he’s pretty sure he knows the etiquette and he’s fairly convinced—with a delicious burst of anticipation—that he knows how it’s going to end. That in mind, he slips out of the bed and begins making preparations.

He showers and dresses, shuffles through Pete’s closet and selects a hoodie, slips it on and pulls the collar up to his nose, heaving in a breath—it’s warm and soft and smells deliciously of Pete, the musk of his skin and spice of his cologne. He shrugs his denim jacket over it all and gathers his things, his guitar and backpack, his trucker hat set on his head just so. He figures if it _is_ a date the least he can do is get the popcorn, shouldn’t take more than an hour or two to make enough if he gets to the park quick enough to scoop up the lunchtime rush. Before he leaves he pauses, a lovesick little afterthought that he sneers at himself for allowing to dance through his brain. Should he? His inner romantic wins and he slips the note into his jacket pocket, right above his heart.

He plays with a soaring heart, with a smile that glows from him and for once he doesn’t feel the need to hunch down on himself. He sings for Pete, bright with the joy of him, sparkling with the thought that things could go right, that maybe—just this once—everything will turn out okay. 

_Pete wants to date him._

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he fumbles for it with an eager, racing heart—Pete?—the tingling elation giving way to confusion at the name on the screen. Brendon? Brendon doesn’t have a phone, he told him he’d forgotten to take it with him that day, that he’d left it on the mattress at Gabe’s place. Blood runs like ice through his veins and he shivers like fever sweats as he raises it cautiously to his ear with weak, trembling hands.

“Hello?” His voice is pathetic, a weak rasp as his lungs grasp greedily for oxygen that seems to evade him.

“Meet me at the bean at two, _puto,”_ Gabe’s voice makes his chest constrict, his fingers tightening against the neck of his guitar until the strings bite into the soft flesh with a stinging burn. “Just so you know—just in case you’re thinking of bailing on me—I know where Brendon is. Swear to God, _puto_ , I’ll finish what I started.”

The line goes dead and Patrick is a mess of thundering heartbeat, struggling lungs that just can’t drag in enough air and weak, trembling legs that barely hold him upright. He steadies against a bench, eyes closed, concentrating on nothing but the solid weight of his guitar in his arms as he rallies and glances at the time. He has five minutes to get across the park. 

His adult side, the sensible part of him that wants so badly to be taken seriously thinks about calling the police or Pete—anyone—but that won’t work, _can’t_ work. He doesn’t trust the police and Pete… Well, Pete doesn’t know how these things work, he doesn’t _understand_. No, Patrick has to deal with this alone, has to keep Brendon safe. He swore he’d keep him safe.

Ten minutes later he stands, awkward and anxious as he waits for Gabe to show, jumping at shadows and hating himself for being so fucking pathetic. It’s inevitable that Gabe gets the jump on him, striding up behind him on silent soles, a murmured voice in his ear that blurs his vision and jolts dread down his spine. 

“Hey, _puto!_ Good of you to show…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffy! I know, awful, isn't it?
> 
> Just a quick note to say next week's chapter will be posted on Thursday rather than Wednesday so I have chance to recover from Trick Or Pete. "What's Trick Or Pete, Snitches?" I hear you cry... Well, if you head over to Tumblr [HERE](https://sn1tchesandtalkers.tumblr.com/post/166292338905/halloween-is-the-best-time-of-year-whats-not-to) everything is explained in a little more depth but, long story slightly shorter, a collection of Halloween themed Peterick will be posted right here on AO3 next week from me and a whole bunch of other awesome authors so please check back for that!
> 
> Now then, kudos and comments are always lovely and appreciated so, if you have the time, what are you waiting for?
> 
> Have a wonderful week!


	9. Chapter 9

Silence is Pete’s undoing, it always has been.

 

Movement and noise and constant pace charge his blood and keep him afloat, stop him sinking, dragging under the surface, floundering and kicking, lungs burning for breath. Silence means he’s alone and being alone means he’s lonely.

 

The apartment has been silent for close to a week. It was silent for six months before that and Pete knows, tells himself over and over, that he shouldn’t care. Patrick was here and now he’s not and it doesn’t matter—hell, he should be _grateful_ —his favourite pudding pots are unmolested in the refrigerator, there’s always enough hot water for a shower and no one has fucked around with the settings on the TV. But the bed is cold, the apartment is quiet and he misses him with a raw intensity that tears the breath from his lungs.

 

He presumes the note was too much, the offer of the movies, the stupid kiss he added as an afterthought, that it was all way too much for an emotionally battered seventeen year old and he hightailed and ran. It stings that whoring is preferable to his company, that selling his body to greedy men with grasping hands is a step up from his arms and his bed but he respects it, he won’t give chase. No matter how much it aches when Patrick’s scent fades from the sheets day by day.

 

He works, throws himself into it, gets there early—earlier than he used to—and stays back as late as he can, until the janitorial staff kick him out as they lock up. And the hours he can’t fill with work he numbs with cheap vodka. He’s discovered it makes him sleep and if he’s sleeping—dark and dreamless—he’s not thinking about Patrick which suits him just fine. But he checks the incoming case records each day for shoplifting and soliciting charges, hoping against hope…

 

 _Meet me at crown fountain?_

 

The text lights up his phone at close to ten, when he’s verging on reaching for the third tumbler of vodka, the burn of it heating his stomach and lightening his head. He blinks at the screen, confused, convinced he’s already fallen asleep, that no one would be so clueless as to walk out a week ago and send such a blithe message like he just stepped out for coffee. But curiosity killed the cat and he hasn’t used any of his nine lives yet, so he taps out a reply.

 

_Where the hell have you been?_

 

He should regret it, _wants_ to regret it, he doesn’t want to demonstrate that the kid has the power to get to him, that he’s been worried. And Patrick took his favourite goddamn hoodie. He scowls down at the phone in his hand for all the world as though the fucking Sidekick is to blame for allowing him to make a fool of himself. Because—here’s the thing—Pete doesn’t appreciate some fucking seventeen year old making him feel weak. It unsettles him but he can’t stop himself from glowering down at the phone tense with the anticipation of a reply.

 

_You coming or not :)_

 

 _Go to hell, you arrogant little shit,_ that’s what Pete _wants_ to type, his fingers twitch with it, his heart as heavy as his mouth is dry. That would teach him a lesson in how to treat people—he pauses to slop a measure of vodka unsteadily into his glass and tosses it back—he’s not some fucking toy to be summoned by a bored kid in a stupid hat-

 

_I’ll be there in ten minutes._

 

Fuck his traitorous texting thumbs.

 

He considers, for a moment, adding _asshole,_ just to try and put them back onto equal footing but he’s tired and drunk and desperate with the need to see him, to touch him. He drags on his hoodie and shoves on his sneakers, down the stairs and out of the apartment building in moments. He half jogs, heart hammering, as he turns down familiar streets robed in darkness, winds his way to Millennium Park and across to Crown Fountain. He shouldn’t be here, he needs to turn back, needs to go back to his apartment and forget all about flighty teenage boys with wide eyes and pretty lips.

 

The fountain is beautiful, glowing bright as tourists cluster around the base for silhouette shots even given the hour. There’s no golden-haired teen though, no one slouching with hands in pockets and easy confidence written in every heated breath. He starts to panic, eyes roving wildly along the benches that surround the artwork but there’s nothing, no familiar eyes, no mocking grin.

 

“Hey.” There’s a burst of hot breath in his ear and an icy cold hand against the back of his neck.

 

“Where the _fuck_ have you been?” He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want the kid to know how much he hurt him, but it’s there, hanging between them on misted breath in the ethereal glow of the fountain.

 

“Come with me,” Patrick smiles and it’s friendly. It’s sweet and open and—for once—he’s not guarded and defensive. “I want to show you something.”

 

Pete follows without question, without pause or momentary hesitation. Patrick hurries along half a step ahead of him, down the quiet sidewalk his warm breath rising like clouds.

 

“Slow down,” Pete grumbles.

 

“Hurry up,” Patrick counters, grin still in place, Converse _thud-thumping_ against the sidewalk like a drumbeat. They twist and turn through an incomprehensible maze of streets and alleyways, through broken fences and Pete is head-spinningly lost, couldn’t find his way back to his apartment if he walked for the rest of the night. The only thing that reassures him he’s not about to get mugged is Patrick’s confidence, he knows exactly where he’s going, he has a _destination_ beyond “dark alley where he can snatch Pete’s wallet”. His dirty blond hair shines under the glow of the streetlights, curling up slightly against the collar of his jacket, against the pale sweep of his neck. He’s _irritatingly_ pretty.

 

He pauses outside a half-built, abandoned office building. One of the many that were constructed during the property boom, left empty and desolate after the recession. The shell of the building is complete but the windows are boarded, unseeing eyes staring out across the city. Patrick ducks down the side of the building swiftly, hissing at Pete to hurry the fuck up which he does, not because he thinks it’s a particularly good idea but because there isn’t much of an alternative. Patrick is already working a board over a side door loose, just a crack and he disappears like drifting smoke.

 

“Are you… breaking and entering?” Pete hisses after him, struggling through the gap and blinking in the absolute darkness as Patrick yanks the board back in place behind them.

 

“If I am, so are you, asshole,” He can’t see him in the velvet soft blackness that surrounds them but he can feel him. They’re not touching, not at all, but his skin tingles with the sense that Patrick is right in front of him, the body heat kicking off him and charring Pete’s very essence. When he speaks again his voice is low but his breath is warm, ghosting over Pete’s lips with unspoken promise, his voice loaded with insincere contrition. “Are you disgusted by my terrible behaviour?”

 

Pete doesn’t reply but he does jump, skittish, as Patrick grabs his hand and leads him through the darkness deftly, falters and half stumbles as the kid slams to a halt and moves away, fumbling for something as he mutters softly, “I know it’s around here somewhere... Aha! Got you, motherfucker.”

 

Pete is momentarily blinded by light so bright it stings his retinas, his hand shooting up defensively to protect his eyes, knuckles colliding painfully with the solid plastic casing of the torch and sending it clattering to the concrete floor, “Jesus fucking _christ_ , Patrick! That thing’s like the fucking sun, don’t point it at my _eyes,_ dumb fuck!”

 

Patrick doesn’t answer, just grabs the torch back up with a grin and heads for the stairs, thundering up them like he’s made of rubber and fucking _magic_ because, shit, there’s no handrail, nothing but half finished treads and it’s a _long_ way down onto _solid fucking concrete_ if he falls. He pauses a couple of flights up, just a bobbing orb of light twinkling above Pete as he calls back down, “You coming, chicken shit?”

 

Pete is many things but he’s not a coward and he won’t be called one by some seventeen year old asshole racing his way up a death trap of a building. He should just leave, back out through the board and onto the street. He’ll find a cab—or his way home—eventually. But he’s _not_ fucking chicken shit. He told his brother this the time he dared him to jump off the roof of their house clutching their mom’s patio umbrella and everything turned out fine. His ankle healed up great.

 

“Just… A little light on the stairs, please?” There’s a burst of laughter above him, sweet and melodious, and a shaft of golden light illuminates the steps like the fucking yellow brick road. He takes them carefully, hand pressed to the rough brickwork next to him as he grits his teeth in concentration, focussing on each careful step. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that, right?”

 

Patrick just laughs once more, musical and soft and soon they’re side by side as they complete the climb together. It seems natural when Patrick reaches across and laces their fingers together, his cold fingers tightening in a reassuring squeeze as he swings the beam across the top floor of the building.

 

“Home sweet home!”

 

Pete feels his stomach drop unpleasantly, his throat tightening as white hot fingers of guilt wrap around it. He takes in the mattress thrown in one corner piled with sleeping bags and blankets of varying sizes and provenances. Patrick’s battered guitar is propped next to it, his backpack slung on the floor. There’s a small crate next to the bed scattered with guitar picks, half drunk water bottles, empty cardboard cups, a toothbrush, paste, a battered-looking razor and a tiny lantern.

 

“Patrick,” he begins softly. “Is this where you’ve been…” He trails off, can’t complete the sentence. “Living” doesn’t right because this isn’t fucking living, it’s existing. Sleeping? Staying? None of them fit.

 

“Hey,” Patrick shrugs, collapsing back onto the mattress with a smile and fumbling with the small camping lantern that Pete has no doubt whatsoever was liberated from one of the city’s outdoor supplies stores without a single dollar changing hands. “Don’t look like that. It’s okay, really, I don’t have to whore any more, I make enough from busking to buy food so that’s _great_ and the guy at the YMCA down the street lets me use their showers so-”

 

“Patrick,” Pete lowers himself onto the mattress with a sigh. “You can’t live like this.”

 

“I’m not like _you,”_ Patrick snarls, fury heavy as lead in his tone, barking words like barbs, like arrows shot in anger directly at Pete, directly at everyone just like Pete. “I’m not some rich kid with a college fund. This is how I live, this is how I survive, you don’t like it then just… I dunno. Leave me the fuck alone or something.”

 

The silence that falls is tense, dark and awkward, swirling around them like poison gas, like empty apologies. Pete fumbles desperately for something to say, anything at all to break the tension pulled tight and taut between them. _Leave me the fuck alone_. He’s tried that, it doesn’t _work._ Patrick glares at the toes of his shoes, as though the caps of worn out, greying rubber are to blame for every problem he’s ever faced in a life that Pete is sure has been determined to knock him on his ass at every turn.

 

“Have you been to see Brendon yet?” He asks softly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. It’s too fucking cold for just a hoodie, even a thick, warm one, Patrick must be freezing. “Gerard says he’s settling in well.”

 

“No,” Patrick snaps tersely, a catch in his voice. Pete glances at him, at his eyes glittering with tears behind his glasses. “What’s the point?”

 

“It might make you feel better if you knew he was happy,” Pete prompts gently. “Maybe you could think about a placement your-”

 

 _“No,”_ Patrick growls emphatically. “Quit fucking saying shit like that. I’m not going into another shitty orphanage.”

 

“Alright,” Pete holds his hands up, palms towards Patrick, a gesture of supplication, of compliance. “But you should go see him. I’ll bet he misses you.”

 

They fall quiet once again, Pete starts to shiver. It’s so goddamn cold in the building, cold enough for his breath to hang in the air in front of him on each exhale. He wonders if there’s some kind of heater he could get the kid that won’t burn the building to the ground. He almost wishes he didn’t care either way, that he could switch off the swirling sense of unease that creeps over him every time he thinks about him. He knows it’s only going to intensify now he knows exactly where he’s staying.

 

“Aren’t you cold?” He asks, Patrick shakes his head sullenly, knees drawn up to his chin. “Did you steal the lamp?”

 

“Yep,” Patrick smiles. It’s not aimed at Pete, the gesture seems to be made somewhere between his shoes and the mattress but it’s warm and bright, lighting up his face in the glow of the lamplight.

 

“Badass,” Pete mutters with a grin of his own. “You’re gonna find yourself in trouble one day.”

 

“Maybe,” Patrick shrugs, that same half smile dancing over his full lips, making his eyes sparkle like starlight. “But I know this attorney…”

 

“I was just as bad as you at your age,” Pete extends his hands modestly. “I used to get up to all kinds of shit. I’d spend all my time smoking pot and drinking Pabst in the skate park. Fuck, my mom used to freak out…”

 

“What else did you do?” Patrick asks with interest, finally locking that keen blue gaze on Pete.

 

“Well, you know,” Pete’s shoulders twitch up into a shrug, a blush creeping up his neck as he realises how fucking _pathetic_ he sounds. “Drugs and underage drinking, that was pretty… Well… Kind of…”

 

“Fucking lame?” Patrick offers helpfully his smile fading a little. “I mean, I sucked dick for money so I could feed me and my foster brother. But you’re right. Our teens were pretty similar, all things considered.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Pete mutters, and suddenly he’s the one with interesting shoes, determined to look anywhere but at Patrick. “That was a shitty thing for me to say.”

 

“I’m fucking with you, man,” Patrick fumbles down the side of his mattress, emerging triumphant with a pack of peanut butter M&Ms. He shakes a handful of jewel-bright beads into his palm and tosses them into his mouth, offering the pack to Pete like a peace offering. “We’ve all… It’s all relative, right?”

 

“Right.” Pete plucks a green candy from the bag, crunching it slowly as he watches Patrick shuffle on his ass across the mattress and fumble in the crate for… Fuck, candles. A whole goddamn armful of cylindrical fire hazards in the hands of a kid that looks as though he’ll burn off his own eyebrows just getting them lit. He watches nervously as Patrick sets the fat pillars down a few feet from the mattress, watches as he frowns, carefully cupping his hand around the flame as each one sputters into life casting skittering shadows across the walls. His heart jumps a little as he lights the last one and turns to Pete with an apologetic smile, “Sorry, I know it’s kind of crappy but the lamp’s a solar powered piece of shit. It won’t last more than half an hour.”

 

“It’s cool,” Pete smiles widely. “At least we’ll be warm when we burn to death.”

 

“Okay,” Patrick begins with a playful grin bright with promise and want as he lounges back against the mattress, the candlelight casting flickering shadows across his face. “Let’s play a game,” Pete groans his objection. “No, it’ll be fun! Come on! Truth or dare?”

 

“How old are we?” He grumbles, irritation lacing his voice. He realises as soon as the words have left his mouth that they were a stupid thing to say. But he’s already about seventy different shades of dumb fuck for even _being_ here, will one more really cause much further damage?

 

“Seventeen?” Patrick snaps back smartly.

 

Pete grimaces into his collar before nodding quickly. “Okay, fine. Truth.”

 

“Wuss,” Patrick mutters under his breath before staring at Pete with a level of perception and a creeping grin that he just doesn’t like. “Do you think I’m hot?”

 

“Patrick, come on,” Pete objects quickly. “This isn’t appro-”

 

 _“Ah ah ah,”_ Patrick wags a finger, the grin a little wider, a little more smug. He can’t decide if he’d rather smack or kiss it off his face. “You chose truth.”

 

“Okay, fine,” Pete rolls his eyes. “Yes. I think you’re kind of cute.”

 

“That wasn’t the question but okay,” Patrick is smirking, wide and lewd, teeth gleaming in the low light of the candles. “Fucking _knew_ you think I’m fuck-”

 

“Right, I get it,” Pete interrupts irritably. “Your turn.”

 

“Truth,” Patrick shuffles down the mattress a little, his hips level with Pete’s as he looks up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “Make it good.”

 

“How come _I_ get shit for choosing truth?” Pete glares his finest courtroom glare. Patrick continues to smirk, plump pink lips drawn up temptingly at the corners. “Why were you anywhere near my apartment when Brendon… Got hurt?”

 

“I just wanted to see you,” Patrick doesn’t sound embarrassed, just plays a hand lightly over his stomach. His shirt rides up the smallest amount, a thin band of pale skin placed delicately on display and Pete aches to touch, just a brush of fingertips over satin soft, a gentle tongue, the taste of skin and desire.

 

“Why?” Pete asks, shoving both hands down between his thighs so he doesn’t reach out to tuck that lock of soft, blond hair fanned across Patrick’s smooth, pale cheek back behind his ear.

 

“That would be another question,” Patrick grins wolfishly. “Your turn.”

 

“Truth.”

 

“Oh stop being so fucking _adult,”_ Patrick snaps. Pete holds his gaze steadily and he backs down with a deep, shuddering sigh, chewing on his lip as he thinks, eyes dancing with fire and mischief as he speaks. “Do you want to kiss me?”

 

“Patrick,” he tries, he tries _desperately_ , to inject a note of big-brotherly warning into his tone. To speak to Patrick in the same way as he’d scold his younger brother for saying something ridiculous in front of their mother. Instead his voice betrays him and it rasps across his vocal chords thick with undisguised need and desire. He lowers his head into his hands for a moment, feels the mattress dip as Patrick swings around and onto his knees next to him. He’s so close, barely an inch between them, if Pete were to lean against him it could be feigned as accidental, he could deny the intent. There’s a ghost of hot breath against his ear, the noise of Patrick’s tongue swiping over his lips impossibly loud.

 

“Pete?”

 

“Yeah…” Pete bites hard on his lower lip, too much, the kid is too young, he’s disgusting, stop stop _stop._ “Fuck. Yeah, I’d really, _really_ like to kiss you.”

 

There’s no movement, no sound for an agonising minute. Pete can hear Patrick breathing, feel the little puffs of breath against his skin. He’s painfully aware of his cock stirring in his pants, pressing hard and urgent against the zipper of his jeans. _Inappropriate. Unprofessional. Misconduct._

 

“Dare,” Patrick breathes against his ear, lips pressed soft and teasing against the shell. He swears he feels tendrils of heat coiling and snaking out from that sinful brush of warm skin, darting through his bloodstream to jolt electric shocks against his cock.

 

“I dare you…” Pete considers for a second, staring down at his tightly clasped hands. “I dare you to take off your hat.”

 

Patrick laughs, a throaty little noise but he does it, removes the trucker cap slowly and carefully places it down onto the mattress. Pete can’t resist any longer, lets his hand stretch up and his fingers brush softly through Patrick’s hair. It’s soft, a little too long and messy, like silk between his fingertips as he pushes it back from his brow. Patrick’s eyes drift closed for a moment, his body leaning into the press of Pete’s palm. He parts his lips, his voice rasping and low as he lets out a noise that’s half a groan, half a low hum, “Your turn.”

 

“Dare,” he murmurs, with only a moment of hesitation, eyes meeting Patrick’s in the golden light of the candles. The blue of his eyes is intensified, almost painfully bright, like staring straight into the sun and he wonders if, like icarus, he’s drifting dangerously close.

 

“I dare you,” Patrick gazes at him for a long moment, teeth shining, hands pressed lightly to his thighs. “To take off your jacket.”

 

Pete obeys, pulling off the thick warmth of his hoodie and tossing it down next to the mattress, shivering a little in his thin shirt.

 

“Dare,” Patrick whispers, snagging his lower lip between his teeth. Pete’s heart is a heavy thrum in the centre of his chest, his lungs tight and painful, every instinct telling him to stop, leave, _go._

 

“I dare you to take off _your_ jacket,” he murmurs instead, watching with half closed eyes as Patrick obeys, the denim shrugged off and dropped to the floor.

 

They continue their dance maddeningly slowly, each instruction carefully deliberated, chosen with delicate precision. _Dare. I dare you to take off your shirt. Dare. I dare you to take off your belt. I dare you to take off your shoes. I dare you… I dare you… I dare you…_

 

“Dare,” Pete’s panting hard, fighting to control his breathing as he stretches out on the mattress next to Patrick, pressed close under a pile of blankets and sleeping bags and searing body heat. He imagined—and burns with shame for even thinking it—that the mattress would smell disgusting but it doesn’t. It just smells of Patrick—of warm skin, unwashed denim and a faint note of sweat. There’s nothing between them but two pairs of shorts and a solid wall of reasons he shouldn’t be doing this.

 

“I dare you to kiss me,” Patrick whispers breathlessly, eyes wide as he reaches across to touch Pete’s cheek with two soft fingertips.

 

“If I kiss you,” he begins softly, leaning in and pressing his nose lightly against Patrick’s throat, feeling the messy throb of his pulse against his skin. “What then? What’s the next dare, Patrick?”

 

There’s a beat of silence between them, a moment of harsh breathing and hot, damp skin, a second of radiating heat and clear blue eyes and then, “I fucking _dare_ you. To kiss me.”

 

Willpower washes away like sandcastles at high tide, he leans in, closes the distance between their lips and slips a hand to Patrick’s cheek. There’s the wonderful contrast of smooth, soft skin and the coarse hair of his sideburns—his fucking _sideburns,_ he’s not sure he’s ever going to understand them—and Patrick nuzzles, soft and sweet and lust-bright against his palm.

 

“Shit,” he breathes, a final prayer, a strangled murmur, the verbal embodiment of exactly how fucked he is and then there are lips against his. Patrick’s mouth is exactly how he remembers, sweet and butter-soft, lips plump and inviting and alight with a breathy little moan. It’s exactly the same and yet exquisitely different because this time— _fuck,_ this time—it’s willing not bought.

 

He teases his tongue lightly along the seam of Patrick’s lips, slides his fingers into a fistful of honey blond strands, pushing them back and away from Patrick’s mouth and tongue. His thumb feathers gently over the curve of the kid’s ear, a delicious shiver running through the body tucked in tight against his own. Patrick parts his lips in the sweetest of surrenders and it’s tongues and spit, the click of teeth, a warm hand curled around the back of his neck and buried in his hair.

 

He shifts, nudges Patrick over and onto his back and slips between his thighs, his weight braced on his forearms slipped under Patrick's shoulders. Warm hands seem to be everywhere, fisting in his hair, pawing at his shoulders, dull nails scraping down his back. He wants everything, each touch and taste, each whispered promise and reverent word whispered into his ear. He wants his bed, warm and comfortable, but this will do, anywhere would do, “Roll on your stomach.”

 

“Straight to the main event, huh?” Patrick laughs softly, eyes alight with desire as he cranes his neck to glance back at Pete over his shoulder, shifting as Pete pulls down his shorts. “Not gonna lie, I kind of hoped I’d get my cock sucked but… W-what are you doing?”

 

“Just relax,” Pete whispers, hands soft against the pale skin of Patrick’s ass. He squirms as Pete opens him up, takes a moment to admire the soft, pink pucker of his ass. 

 

“Pete, don’t,” laughter threads delicately between the words, a delicious note of uncertainty - Patrick’s never uncertain, Pete loves it, “this is kind of gro- _holy shit!”_

 

Pete’s all soft, wet tongue against tight, twitching muscle, Patrick’s body rigid with startled desire, shudders wracking his frame as he scrambles up onto his knees, face still pressed into the mattress. He’s stuttered groans and needy whines as he presses back against Pete’s greedy lips, “Oh God, Pete, that’s… _Fuck!”_

 

He lashes long, broad strokes over Patrick’s hole, pausing to lightly feather the tip of his tongue against delicate skin, teeth a suggestion of a promise, “Fuck, Pete, you’re so fucking… Put your fingers in... No, don’t, I’ll come... Oh God, _please_ do it, Jesus fucking _Christ,_ gonna… Need you to… _Motherfucker_ …” 

 

Patrick snakes a hand between his legs, groping greedily for his cock but Pete is too quick for him, fingers catching tight around his wrist and pulling his hand up behind his back, “Not yet, just wait…” 

 

Patrick’s keening whine echoes around the building, hips bucking back with desperate need, a tight coil of lust and want winding in Pete’s groin with whispered promises of a pretty boy with a willing body, “Oh, fuck you, Pete, _fuck you_ …”

 

He presses a finger into smooth, tight heat, works his tongue in alongside and Patrick is all but singing for him, melodious moans and filthy proclamations colouring the air blue. Patrick tastes of sweat and skin, of heated musk and dark desires. He adds a second finger, teases and stretches him until he’s trembling and weak, whispered nonsense falling from lush lips, “Pete… I just… Come on, _please_ … I need you, I need… I need _something.”_

 

It’s easy enough to slide beneath him, move onto his back between parted thighs and, with no teasing, slip his mouth over Patrick’s pretty pink prick, slick and bitter with pre-come, “Holy fucking shit, Pete!”

 

Patrick starts to thrust, his body moving sharply, hips twisting, jerking, cock slamming to the back of Pete’s throat hard enough to make him splutter and choke, enough to make his eyes stream. He grabs at pale, narrow hips and guides him harder still, faster, determined to absorb him, to take him in. Patrick is babbling nonsense, tripping over thickened syllables that fall like kisses, like heated touches against Pete’s skin, branding him with wicked words and whispered proclamations. Patrick pulls away with a desperate cry, rolling onto his back and lying, chest heaving, cock hard and flushed and spit-slick curving up as he gasps for breath. 

 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he whimpers weakly as Pete’s hand snakes for his dick, aching with the need to feel heated flesh under his palm, “Swear to God, I’ll fucking explode if you do…”

 

Pete laughs, leans over the kid and brushes soft kisses to softer lips, heady with the taste of Patrick’s mouth, a smooth cheek cupped in his hand as he draws him closer. The kiss deepens as Patrick slides cold hands into his hair, dragging him down with something akin to desperation, his tongue sweeping into Pete’s mouth as he moans and pulls him closer. It’s heady, rich with sweet need and want and something else, some deep melancholy that Pete doesn’t understand as Patrick pulls back and regards him with a bittersweet smile, “I like this… This is… nice.”

 

“It really is,” Pete agrees, peppering light, deliberate kisses along Patrick’s creamy-soft throat, heart pressing a little too hard against his ribs as Patrick sighs quietly. He pulls back, tilts Patrick’s face towards him with a gentle finger crooked under his chin. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” Patrick shakes his head with a wicked grin, that deep sadness scattering like smoke in the breeze, reaching for Pete’s aching, leaking cock with a knowing smirk. “I want to fuck you, Pete, want to so much… You want that? Want me to ride you?”

 

Patrick doesn’t give him the chance to respond, shoving him flat on his back as he scrambles to straddle him, heated kisses and a smooth hand around his cock, pulling and rubbing until he’s bucking, whining, a mess of moans and aching, blood-dark _need._

 

“You know,” Patrick murmurs, fingers toying gently with Pete's nipples—he tosses his head back against the mattress, arches up against the playful little shit—hips rolling in sinful waves that crash and break against Pete until he's crumbling, worn down like shells to sand. “In another universe, you'd have been my first,” he pauses with a little smile, a careless half shrug, gathering up a handful of the tiny pieces he's reduced Pete to and tossing them into the air to scatter like careless confetti, “But really… I think I like this universe best. Maybe I wouldn't have met you in any of the other ones.”

 

With that he braces his hands against Pete's chest, raises his hips and, with a deep breath, moves to lower himself down onto his cock.

 

“Slow down,” Pete begs through swollen lips and around a tongue thickened with want, hands tight against soft, pale hips as he holds him steady. Patrick smiles and shrugs once more. “Can we take our time a little? Please? And, seriously dude, what’s your fucking problem with lube?”

 

“You don't need to-”

 

“But I _want_ to,” he grits through teeth clenched against overwhelming desire that blurs reality at its edges until there's nothing beyond the mattress beneath him, the beautiful boy above him and the guttering candlelight that illuminates them. Beyond that, lost to shadows, is the world outside and for now it can't intrude, can't interfere. “Let me…”

 

Patrick nods, his mouth a wicked curl of pink lips and bright teeth, his tongue dragging lush against his lips as he shifts back so Pete’s dick is pressed into the cleft of his ass, rocking his hips slowly as he whispers, “Have you thought about this since that first night?”

 

“Fuck, every single day, ‘Trick…”

 

“How did you imagine me?” The head of his cock is pressed against the tight pucker of Patrick's hole, it's hard to think, impossible to form words beyond gasped truths that fall from needy lips.

 

“On your back,” he traces a fingertip around a tight, pink nipple, pebbled with desire and cold, delights in the shiver and low moan he coaxes from him, “so I could kiss you, watch you, oh God, ‘Trick…”

 

“On my back,” Patrick seems to mull it over with a slow smile as flickering shadows dance across his face. “No one’s ever… Never mind. It’s dumb.”

 

Pete draws him down with his hands cupped against soft cheeks, rough sideburns and tangles of honey blonde hair. He rolls Patrick beneath him, presses between spread thighs as he props himself on an elbow and gazes down at him, tucking an errant lock of hair behind his ear with undisguised tenderness. He wants to tell him he’s halfway in love with him, more than halfway, that he’s dizzy with him in all of the best and worst possible ways. He bites off words that threaten to fall and destroy them both, swallows them down like a handful of pills and whispers softly, “You’re… Incredible, Patrick.”

 

Pete watches, enraptured, as Patrick moves to his back, spreads his legs and opens himself up with lube-slicked fingers. He can’t resist offering a hand, slipping in a finger of his own and following Patrick’s rhythm as he claims his lips in a searing kiss. Patrick kisses him like he needs him, like Pete’s the beginning and the end for him and all that falls in between. 

 

“I swear to God, if you don’t fuck me, Im just gonna jack off,” Patrick growls, face a picture of concentrated desire, of deep and aching need. There’s a moment of groping in his backpack for a condom, shaking hands and fumbling fingers struggling with slippery latex then Pete’s on his knees between pale thighs, head spinning kisses and fingers in his hair that smell of lube and sex.

 

He takes a deep breath as he lines up, presses forward into Patrick, sheathes himself in indescribable heat and tightness, body trembling with unspoken wants and needs. Patrick suits candlelight, he decides, a softly glowing boy bathed in flickering golden light, Pete’s shadow hanging dark against pale skin as he braces above him. 

 

“What do you want, Patrick?” But that’s not what he means. He wants to know _who_ Patrick wants, that he wants _him_ , that _leave me the fuck alone_ is no longer a concern. He aches with it, with the venom of it bright and poisonous on his tongue.

 

“You,” Patrick whispers as their foreheads touch. “Just… Always you.”

 

He fucks him. It isn’t that he intended to, it isn’t that he _planned_ to, but with Patrick raking at his back with yearning need, heels dull points of pressure in the small of Pete’s back, it’s what he does. Their bodies are matched, stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust, cry for cry, hips that crash like train wrecks, lips that suck with greedy intent on tender skin that blooms with bruises, tongues that whisper desperate promises. 

 

There’s pressure between Pete’s legs, heat that flames in his groin and licks up into his belly in insistent curls, the throb that matches his pulse that matches Patrick’s breathing, sharp and hard and bright with need. He grasps the hot pillar of Patrick’s prick, feels the slick of pre-come against his fingers as he strokes, quick and urgent, crying out as nails sink into his back, as Patrick arches beneath him driving him exquisitely deeper. Patrick’s breath is hot against his ear, panting proclamations that don’t make anything close to proper sense.

 

“Oh God, Pete… Fuck… You’re… Come on, I need… Fuck!” Patrick explodes beneath him, the slick burst of come against his hand, against his chest and stomach as Patrick twitches and cries out beneath him, as his eyes fall closed and his lips soften into a delicious, fuck-flushed pout and, nails bright points of brilliant pain against Pete’s shoulders, he whispers like a desperate prayer, “Fuck, I… God, so much…”

 

Pete shatters. Pete falls apart like a detonation, like planets colliding, like the air has been stripped from the room and he’s left standing in the perfect vacuum of _oh fuck Patrick, Patrick, PATRICK!_ Pete comes apart in ways he isn’t sure can ever be reconstructed, his body raw with it, with each desperate roll of his hips, with each delicious throb of his cock he falls a little further away from anything he thinks he recognises. It’s like sunrise in total darkness, it’s like burning in ice, it’s sweet adulation and sinful perfection and it’s Patrick. _Fucking Patrick._

 

“I love you,” he whispers, heart pounding, ears ringing. “I fucking love you.”

 

There’s a pause - agonising - as Patrick stares at him from wide eyes and Pete wonders, a solid kick to his gut, if he’s ever heard those words before. Reassuringly warm fingers card through his damp hair, as lush, soft lips brush against his cheek and a rich chuckle echoes in his ear, “I fucking love you too, motherfucker.”

 

Later, when Patrick blows out the candles and sinks with something that feels like gratitude into Pete’s arms under a heaped mound of blankets, Pete notices the glow still illuminating the room, “I thought you said that lamp wouldn’t last a half hour?”

 

“Right, I did say that, didn’t I?” Patrick grins and plants a soft kiss on his lips. 

 

“Romantic little asshole,” Pete chuckles, contentment colouring his laugh. Patrick reaches down and squeezes his spent cock with a coyly bitten lip, playful and teasing and yeah, Pete decides, he could get used to this, to Patrick. “You’re coming back with me tomorrow. I don’t know how, but we’ll figure this out.”

 

“Yeah,” Patrick nods and closes his eyes, lashes feathered on flushed cheeks. “We can talk about that tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww! Aren't they just the cutest? I mean, seriously, what could possibly go wrong after that?
> 
> Once again, thank you so much taking the time to read this, I hope you're enjoying it and feedback, as always, is very much appreciated.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a lot of you expressed distrust for me last week and... Well, guys, I'm _hurt_. Let the fluff commence!

Pete wakes alone in total darkness. For a blinding second he has no idea where he is or how he got there, wonders in a sweaty, breathless panic if he’s slumped in his car in a parking lot, empty pill bottle on the seat…

 

_Patrick._ The air races back into the room, floods his greedy lungs with oxygen as he gropes across the mattress for a soft, warm body with a hard, willing cock. Instead his fingers collide with nothing more than cold, hard plastic where Patrick’s cheek should be. The torch, left deliberately where Pete can find it easily. Patrick, very deliberately, not where Pete can find him easily.

 

He runs the beam of the torch around the room with a sinking heart. Patrick’s clothes are gone, though the hoodie he took from Pete’s closet is folded neatly at the bottom of the mattress. Patrick’s backpack is missing but he’s left his guitar, propped against the wall. There’s a note, left where there should be a messy blonde head, one sentence in rough scrawl - _Thank you asshole x_ \- nothing more, no outright statement of finality but it reads like a goodbye and it rings with forever.

 

His cheeks slick wet with tears as he dresses and he cuffs at them angrily. Why the hell should he cry? Why the fuck should he _care?_ Patrick was a good time, a stupid little distraction from the darkness just below his surface, nothing more. He shudders with humiliation, he should never have opened up to Patrick, should never have let him in. But he can’t resist the urge to grab the battered guitar on his way out of the building, a tiny voice telling him that if he has it, and Patrick knows he has it, maybe he’ll come looking for it.

 

The walk home is long. Chicago is waking up around him, the hum of traffic building steadily as he dodges around delivery trucks and tries not to think. It’s barely six when he finds his way back to the familiar streets of his neighbourhood, his apartment silent and cold where the heat has clicked off overnight. All he wants to do is sink into his bed and sleep, to curl into himself and forget. But it’s Wednesday and work is as good a distraction as any so he showers and dresses and heads for the bus stop.

 

“Pete?” Joe’s eyebrows rise in concern as Pete collapses into his chair. “You okay? You look like fucking shit, man.”

 

“I’m fine,” Pete snaps, booting up his computer with a scowl. The recirculated air is already giving him a headache - or it could be the three hours of sleep, or maybe waking alone without an explanation. He knows, because he saw them in the mirror this morning, that there are shadows under his eyes as thick and vicious as the bruises that weave amongst the thorns inked around his neck. He presses his fingertips into one of the more prominent marks on his collarbone, a perfect imprint of Patrick’s lustful lips, recalls the greedy way he'd sucked at his skin with desperation. It happened. It fucking _happened._

 

He throws himself into his work, each task providing something else to think about, each case another series of thoughts that don’t begin and end with dirty blonde hair and riptide eyes. Joe hums under his breath, drums against his desk, calls out every funny meme he sees, “No dude, it’s like, a _cat,_ looking through a broken ceiling tile and… It’s funny as fuck, man!”

 

It’s close to four in the afternoon when an email pops into his inbox from the custody officer at the precinct. He’s needed to provide legal advice to a juvenile during interview. He clicks on the attached custody sheet without much interest, waits for it to load heartened by the knowledge that it means he’ll need to work late, he won’t have to go home and _think._ Instead, the world falls away from under him, two sentences standing out in stark relief against a sea of words that jumble and blur like twisting snakes.

 

_Patrick Martin Stumph._

_Attempted murder._

 

His vision swims as panic bolts through him. This can’t possibly be happening, Patrick’s an aggressive little asshole but he’s not dangerous, he’s not capable of something like that, of that much Pete is absolutely certain. Vomit burns his throat and there’s no time to run for the bathroom, he lunges desperately for his trash can and, choking and spluttering, he coughs his lunch back into the plastic. 

 

“Pete… What’s wrong?” Joe is at his side, reassuring hand on his shoulder, eyes raking over the screen. “Oh fuck… Is that… Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

“I have to go,” Pete babbles, heart pounding and lungs tight, he’s ice cold and burning up, shivering as he sweats, lunges for his keys and phone without coordination. They clatter to the floor and he sinks to his knees, head in his hands. “I need… I need to get to him. I have to see him.”

 

“I’m coming with you,” Joe throws on his coat and wrestles Pete into his. Their colleagues are staring, whispering, Pete’s barely aware of anything beyond getting one foot in front of the other and getting to the fucking precinct. It’s growing dark outside, breath hanging in clouds of mist as the christmas lights twinkle in the store fronts and on the street lights. The rink at Millennium Park is sparkling with strings of lights and happy couples, reminding him with a sharp twist of his gut that he was going to take Patrick skating at the weekend. They were going to wobble around on the ice together laughing at the people that take it too seriously, maybe pausing to steal a kiss against the railings. He was going to buy him cocoa afterwards and watch the steam fog his glasses and turn the tip of his nose pink. He was going to take him back to the apartment and fuck him through the mattress, their hands cold from the December air. They were going to shower together, he’d decided, Patrick changing into Pete’s pajamas so they could tangle on the couch and watch shitty movies. They were going to fall asleep together and wake up cramped and stiff, crankily blaming one another as they staggered to bed. 

 

Attempted fucking _murder._

 

Joe grabs him outside of the precinct, nails sinking into his arm in warning as he stares at him from clear, blue eyes.

 

“Pete,” he begins firmly, waits until Pete returns his gaze before continuing. “You stay calm in there, okay? You get emotional and I won’t fucking hesitate to get them to remove your ass, do you understand? You can’t help him if you’re bawling like a bitch.”

 

Pete nods numbly, hands thrust down into his pockets like he can anchor himself through sheer force of will. It’s loud in the station, the time of year for public order offences as a few drinks after work gets out of hand. It’s not the time of year for a seventeen year old kid to be huddled in a holding cell with a potential life sentence hanging over him. It can’t be right. It’s got to be some ridiculous mistake. A pair of familiar hazel eyes smile at him from behind the custody desk, Detective Frank Iero, a fellow Poli-Sci graduate that joined the Dark Side of the legal profession when he graduated with a top class degree and promptly joined the Chicago Police Department.

 

“Pete! Joe! Good to see you,” he grins crookedly. “You here for the juvie? I didn’t know they sent you guys in pairs…”

 

“I’m just shadowing,” Joe grins ruefully. “The boss seems to think I could learn thing or two from this dipshit.”

 

“You almost definitely could,” Frank laughs, picking up his phone and conducting a short conversation. “Okay, they’re ready for you to advise him now, I’ll just take you down.”

 

Pete follows on legs that feel like putty, hand pressed to the reassuring solidity of the wall next to him as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. It’s the usual tiny, airless room with the usual jug of room temperature water and plastic cups. He sits, tense with fear, as he waits for the screaming to begin, for the curses and threats to echo down the corridor in Patrick’s wake. He’s not expecting it, jolts with shock, as a pale-faced kid is led quietly into the room, hands cuffed and head down. He looks like Patrick but the arrogant charm is gone, just a shell of a boy without his sparkle, a very young, very broken product of the fucked up care system.

 

It takes everything Pete possesses not to rush to him, everything he has not to throw his arms around him and drag him close and reassure him it’s okay, it’s fine, everything’s going to work out. He sits, lightheaded and nauseous, and waits for Patrick to look up, waits for a flicker of recognition, for a smile. Patrick sits, still staring at his hands, at the cuffs that gleam at his wrists. They’re shaking, Pete notices, trembling against the tabletop.

 

“This is Mr Trohman and Mr Wentz,” Frank is informing Patrick with something close to kindness as Patrick’s eyes raise slowly and lock on Pete’s. Pete sees each emotion play across his ashen face, recognition and relief, a flood of something warm and tender. It washes away in an instant, replaced by anger and fury and bright, animal _fear_. “They’re your state-appointed defence-”

 

“No,” Patrick cuts him off sharply, raising those trembling hands to point at Pete. “Not him, he can… He can _fuck off!”_

 

“Patrick,” Joe begins soothingly.

 

“Shut the fuck _up,”_ Patrick roars, slamming the cuffs down hard against the table between them. “Get him out! Fucking _get him out!_ I don’t want him here, I want another lawyer, get that fucking _asshole_ out of here! You hear me, motherfucker? Get the fuck _away_ from me!”

 

“I don’t…” Frank trails off, eyes flicking between Patrick and Pete. “Do the two of you… _know_ each other?”

 

“Pete represented him on a shoplifting charge,” Joe cuts in quickly. “I guess he’s not a satisfied customer.”

 

“Stay the _fuck_ away from me,” Patrick hisses, face twisted into an ugly snarl that drags at Pete like knives, the sting of it only worsened by the tears he can see glittering behind the lenses of Patrick’s glasses. “I don’t _want_ you here.”

 

Pete can’t move, can only stare at Patrick and dig his nails into the palms of his hands in a desperate bid to stop himself from reaching up and touching Patrick's cheek, from tracing his fingertips through his sideburns. His hands sting and his fingers cramp as tears burn his eyes, this isn’t right, something is wrong.

 

“Pete,” Joe’s hand is on his arm as he leans in. “You should leave, this isn’t helping. Patrick, you okay with me staying, buddy?”

 

“I don’t give a fuck as long as he leaves,” Patrick sinks his face into his hands, refuses to look up as Pete rises slowly to his feet. He wants to brush his hand through Patrick’s hair, to tilt up his chin and press a soft kiss to his lips, wants to tell him that he meant what he said last night. Instead he mutters softly, “Fine. Have it your way.”

 

Frank leads him back down the corridor, leaving Patrick alone with nothing but Joe and a two way mirror for company. He shows him into the brief’s room which, whilst still basic, at least has a coffee machine and seats that aren’t moulded for the ass of Satan himself. Frank pauses at the door and leans against the frame, arms folded and eyes speculative, “That was… A little intense for a botched shoplifting charge.”

 

“Can I see his file?” Pete asks dully, massaging his jaw. His heart aches - physically aches - the way it did in Adam’s office, the way it did in his car. 

 

“You’re not his attorney,” Frank points out, oh so very reasonably. Pete wants to throw something, maybe many things, wants to wave his middle finger in Frank’s face and scream _fuck you_ at the top of his lungs. He does none of those things, just raises an eyebrow with a sigh.

 

“You know I can see it once you upload it anyway,” he points out quietly. Frank nods and smiles maddeningly. Fury climbs a little higher through the panic settled somewhere between his stomach and lungs.

 

“Well, I guess that’s what you’ll have to do,” he shrugs. “Because _you_ are _not_ his attorney. He made that pretty clear.”

 

“Fuck you, Iero, just give me the basics,” Pete sighs, pouring a coffee with shaking hands. 

 

Frank watches him, those hazel eyes heavy against the back of his neck as he pops the foil on a tiny plastic carton of creamer and tips it into the brown plastic cup. He adds sugar - lots of it - his grandma always said something with sugar was good for shock and he sure as shit doesn’t have anything stronger and stirs slowly, refusing to turn until Frank speaks.

 

“Okay, fine,” Frank cross the room and sits down, stretches out his legs and cracks his knuckles. “He turned himself in this morning.”

 

“He turned himself in?” Pete repeats, another wave of nausea cramping his stomach. “What… What the fuck for?”

 

“You read the brief,” Frank shrugs. “Some kid got shot a couple weeks ago and he’s over in Northwestern on a fucking ventilator. Induced coma. To be honest with you man, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m upping the charge to murder by the weekend.”

 

“So, Patrick just walked in here-”

 

“Oh,” Frank grins, all inside knowledge and knowing inflection. “It’s _Patrick,_ is it?”

 

“Fuck off, Frank.” He takes a second to suck down a slug of coffee, the burn of it sharp against his tongue. “It’s… Complicated.”

 

“I absolutely don’t doubt that,” a nonchalant shrug, a neat little wave of a heavily tattooed hand. “But you know you’re not touching this with a fucking forty foot pole, right?”

 

There are many things Pete would dearly love to say in response. He’d like to tell Frank that he’s not a fucking idiot, that he maintains at least the impression of professionalism or that he’d very much like to continue to hold his licence. The childish side of him still wants to bark out a sharp _fuck you_. Instead he lets his irritated sigh and the muted, plastic click of his coffee stirrer hitting the bottom of the trash can stand as his reply, a muscle ticking tense and tight in his jaw.

 

“He’s seventeen, Pete…” Frank trails off with a sigh of his own. “He’ll be close to fifty when he gets out.”

 

Pete snorts, hard in the back of his throat, but there’s no mirth in the sharp bark of noise. “He won’t,” he assures Frank, words clipped and icy and measured, “because he won’t be going to fucking _jail_ for it. You’ve spoken to him, do you honestly think he’s capable of shooting someone?”

 

“He’s admitted it,” Frank smiles sympathetically. “Look, I’m not gonna ask about the two of you, so don’t tell me, I want my ass completely clear in this. But seriously, Pete, don’t pin yourself on this one, okay? Walk the fuck away.”

 

Pete gulps down the rest of his coffee, feels it scald all the way down, lets his cup fall into the trash as he stares at a poster on the wall that lists the signs that point to domestic violence. Walk away? Just go home. Leave Joe to do his job and maybe, in the next couple months, he might read a few paragraphs in the Tribune that detail Patrick’s hearing and sentence. A couple of lines that summarise a brutal crime, neatly resolved, the citizens of the fair city safe from one more criminal. Pete can go back to beer and box sets on the couch, maybe in months or years to come he’ll meet a nice guy, someone like him, college-educated and professional. Someone tall and handsome, someone that wants to go to the farmers market at weekends.

 

Someone dull and safe and not Patrick. Patrick is sweaty basement shows and hard sex, he’s stupid jokes and inappropriate comments. Patrick is everything he shouldn’t want but everything he knows he needs.

 

“Pete?”

 

“I heard you,” he sighs, raking his hands through his hair. “I’m just gonna wait here for Joe, that okay?”

 

“Yeah, man,” there’s a hitch of shoulders under a crisp, white shirt, a rustle of cotton and creak of leather from his holster as he rises to his feet, presses a hand to Pete’s shoulder. “Stay as long as you need. You know where the coffee is. If you ask _real_ nicely, I might even get you a donut.”

 

He sits on the chair in the corner, arms folded on the worn tabletop and lets his head rest in the cradle that they form. He thinks he sleeps, snatched minutes of fitful dozing, moments of soft, pale skin and a voice that murmurs filth and promises, grasping hands and a mouth that tastes of need. Still, he jolts awake time after time, jerking up in his seat as nightmares creep into the edges, a pale-faced boy in a too-big prison uniform, wrists and ankles cuffed, a sharp-tongued prosecutor that tears him apart. Life sentences. 

 

“Pete?” He jumps, jerking away from the voice and the warm hand on his shoulder, stilling under Joe’s clear, blue gaze. “You okay, man?”

 

“No,” he whispers hoarsely, leaning gratefully into Joe’s chest as he slings an arm around his shoulders. “What… What’s going on?”

 

“Not here,” Joe shakes his head cautiously. “You know I don’t trust these fuckers not to listen in. You’re coming back to my place for dinner, we’ll talk about it there.”

 

“Is he _okay?”_ Pete implores desperately, grabbing at Joe’s shirtsleeve. 

 

“He’s facing thirty fucking _years,_ dude,” Joe mutters, refusing to meet his gaze. “How do you think he is?”

 

The journey to Joe’s place is interminable, a grinding drag of minutes that bleed into one another like world weary hours, the L rolling at a glacial pace and the walk conducted in painful silence. He tries to question Joe at first, tries to drag answers from him like he would a client, like he would a witness in court but Joe simply cocks an eyebrow and advises him to keep his lawyer bullshit to himself. So, they travel in silence until they cross the threshold of Joe’s apartment, dark and empty.

 

“Marie?” He asks, more from good manners than anything else, all he wants to talk about is Patrick.

 

“At her friend’s,” Joe kicks off his shoes and waits pointedly for Pete to do the same, discarding his coat and padding into the kitchen. Once they’re seated, cradling bottles of fancy European beer, he clears his throat and begins to speak. “He’s confessed everything, Pete.”

 

“What, exactly, is he confessing to?” Pete implores, swallowing down his beer in a few slugs. 

 

“Some kid got shot,” Pete already knows this, he needs details. “They’ve been investigating some dealer, tailing him for weeks, they were pretty sure it was him but your boy’s come in and confessed the whole thing. He knows everything, Pete - crime scene set up, which direction the shot came from, the fucking gun that was used-”

 

“Are there prints?” Pete asks quickly.

 

“No,” Joe shakes his head and hope sparks bright in his chest - circumstantial evidence at best, with good luck and a good judge… “But that doesn’t count for shit when they’ve got a fucking _confession._ It won’t even go to trial, you know that.”

 

Pete does, the most Joe can do as Patrick’s defender is work for the best plea bargain he can get. If the kid’s willing to throw himself on the sword and confess to everything, there isn’t even a deal to be cut beyond a few years shaved off for pleading guilty without a fight. A reward for saving a few taxpayer dollars on a trial. Pete feels sick, nausea thick and cloying in his gut as he picks frantically on the label of his beer bottle. “When did it happen?”

 

“The shooting?” Joe takes a drink and shrugs. “Three weeks ago, Saturday.”

 

“Three weeks?” Pete questions him, leaning forward, lawyer brain slowly clicking into gear. “Like, the twenty-second?”

 

“I guess.” Pete thinks it over furiously, Patrick had appeared at his door with Brendon that Wednesday. Four days before, Saturday night, he stood on the street and watched Patrick, he fucking saw him climb into an SUV with that other kid, the tall one with the dark hair. 

 

_“When?”_ He repeats sharply. “Like, time of day?”

 

“It was called in around ten thirty,” Joe furrows his brow in concern as Pete leaps to his feet and begins to pace the room, agitated. “What? Why?”

 

“He wasn’t there,” Pete snarls, he wants to shout and scream, wants to grab Frank by the fucking collar and scream at him that he was right, he was fucking _right._ “That night, that time - he’s a fucking rent boy, Joe. I saw him… I saw him getting into a car that night-”

 

“Whoa,” Joe holds his hands up. “You _saw_ him? What… What the fuck is going on with you, Pete?”

 

“I don’t… I don’t fucking _know_ anymore, man,” Pete lets out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob. “But he didn’t fucking _do_ anything, Joe, he can’t possibly… I can testify. I can stand as a witness and-”

 

“No,” Joe shakes his head. “No you can’t, asshole. Everyone at the precinct knows you’re fucking him, they figured it out after the little display he put on for them and you know - you fucking _know_ \- how cops like to gossip. They’d tear you to shreds, they’d-”

 

“So, what? I just let him throw his fucking life down the toilet?” Pete snaps, voice rising.

 

“You’re fucking him, asshole!” Joe slams his beer bottle down onto the table and drags his hands through his hair. “You’re the least reliable witness I could put on the goddamn stand. You’d fuck him over, you wouldn’t mean to, but that’s what would happen.”

 

“Then what am I gonna _do?”_ Pete roars, kicking at the nearest cabinet. “Who the fuck is he covering for, anyway?”

 

“If we knew that he wouldn’t be sitting in a fucking cell right now, would he, motherfucker?” Joe snaps. “And don’t kick my fucking cabinets.”

 

“We need to find the kid,” Pete doesn’t bother to apologise, goes right back to pacing as adrenaline pumps, white hot, through his veins. “We need to find the kid he was with, and we need to persuade him to give a statement.”

 

“You’re fucking insane,” Joe shakes his head as he finishes his beer. Pete could shake him for his startling demonstration of apathy. “Why couldn’t you get yourself a normal boyfriend?”

 

Pete considers, just for a moment, punching Joe in the throat. He quickly dismisses the idea, temporarily satisfying though it may be, it just wouldn’t be worth the whining he’d hear about it afterwards. Instead he drops back down into the chair opposite him and seeks out his gaze, refusing to look away until clear blue eyes meet his own.

 

“If I’m gonna help him, you need to help me,” he implores, grabbing at Joe’s hand. “Please. No one’s gonna let me anywhere near this, you’re the only contact I have with him.”

 

Joe stares at him from under thick, dark lashes, one hand pressed to Pete’s, the other curled defensively around his beer bottle. He’s uncertain, it _radiates_ from him like frigid air and Pete can’t blame him. If they fuck this up, if _Pete_ fucks this up, both of their asses could be on the line. Joe could lose his job, he shouldn’t get any closer to the case than Pete should but Patrick… He didn’t send Joe away. Pete has to hold on, has to believe that he did that to maintain contact, that he wanted an indirect link. He has to help him.

 

“Okay, fine,” he drains his bottle with a shuddering sigh. “But if this goes to hell and I get fired, _you_ can explain it to Marie.”

 

“Thank you,” Pete mutters, sliding back into his seat. “Now, do you have his file?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah. Wait. You were _absolutely_ correct not to trust me _at all_...
> 
> Want to yell at me? There's a comment box right below! If you haven't hit the kudos button yet that would be hugely appreciated. Feedback makes me warm and happy inside.
> 
> Almost the weekend...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, here we are again. Ready? Let's dive in!

Patrick tells himself that the Juvenile Detention Center is no different to the orphanage. It’s the same sweaty mass of teenage boys with bad attitudes and poor personal hygiene, forced into the kind of close proximity none of them feel entirely comfortable with. It’s the same endless, structured days with a time to get up, a time to go to class, a time to do chores and a time to sleep. He tells himself it’s no different because that stops him examining all of the ways that it _is_ different too closely. The uniform of baggy grey sweatpants and loose, utilitarian sweatshirt - IDJJ stamped across the back in black - is definitely different. His jeans, shirt, jacket, shoes and hat were taken from him when he was brought in, packed away in a box with his name scrawled on the side in marker, to be stored until the day he’s released. 

 

The boys are different too. More aggressive, more prone to angry outbursts than the fits of tears that were common at the orphanage. There’s a real sense of danger with some of the kids though the quiet boy he rooms with—did he say his name was Spencer?—seems nice enough. Patrick can throw a punch, he can take care of himself, but he’s short and blonde with thick glasses and that seems to attract all of the worst kind of attention.

 

He headbutted the motherfucker that tried to drag him into a cubicle in the showers, intent on forcing him to his knees and slamming his cock down Patrick’s throat. A forehead to the bridge of his nose seemed to dampen his ardour somewhat and, black eyes and broken nose displayed as very prominent reminders, he’s so far made the sensible choice to leave Patrick the fuck alone. 

 

But there’ll be others, other aggressive assholes wanting to take advantage, to vent their frustration at the world and he knows that next time they might not act alone. He can fend off one but how would he fair against two? Three? More? These are the thoughts that distract him during classes in the small room with barred windows, seated at his grey desk—secured to the floor with heavy duty bolts, obviously—surrounded by other boys at other grey desks in other grey sweatshirts. This is how the state deem it appropriate for them to spend six hours of their day, Monday to Friday, engaged in pointless classes learning pointless facts to get a diploma that’s never going to fucking _matter._

 

Every time the tears threaten to drown him— _don’t show weakness, never show any fucking weakness_ —every time he’s kept awake by the kid in the next cell screaming or Spencer whispering furiously to himself in the bunk above him, he reminds himself why he’s doing this. He’s keeping Brendon safe. He’s keeping _Pete_ safe. Whispered words from smiling lips haunt him like fucking revenants— _I know where Brendon is, puto, I’ve seen him at his fancy new house, don’t think I won’t slit his fucking throat_ —they swirl in his head when he tries to sleep, pound in his brain until he’s sick with them. He’s done what Gabe told him, everything he asked for, but what if it’s not enough— _I’ve seen that new boyfriend of yours, puto, he looks fancy, hotshot lawyer? You think his boss’d be happy about him fucking trash like you?_ —what if he does all that he threatened?

 

Patrick’s trapped here, stuck and suffocating, can’t get out, can’t help, can’t protect, can’t keep everyone safe. The tip of his pencil snaps against the page in front of him, he didn’t realise how hard he’d been driving it into the paper. He needs to calm down, he’s done what Gabe asked, he’s done everything right. He just needs to keep his head down and his fucking mouth shut. 

 

He doesn’t like mealtimes in the cafeteria, just like high school when he was a care kid, the same cliques but now it’s the drug dealers hanging out on one table, the violent offenders on another. He keeps to himself, but won’t hunch down like he’s scared, exudes just enough of a _fuck off_ vibe to keep the seats directly next to him free, but not so much that it draws unnecessary attention—still five feet four, still one hundred and forty pounds, still small enough to get the fucking shit kicked out of him—and it seems to be enough. He gets left alone. He really isn’t in this place to make friends.

 

Visiting times are strange. Most of the kids don’t have anyone to visit—care kids, just like him—no doting parents, no grandma and grandpa and it’s not really the kind of place friends can drop by, Patrick isn’t even sure that would be allowed. Still, he’s surprised when a guard calls him over to tell him he has a visitor.

 

“Who?” He frowns, confused.

 

“Just shut your goddamn mouth and get in line,” the asshole growls, shoving him with force that seems just a touch unnecessary. He staggers into the line, scowls at the motherfucker that laughs at him, and shuffles along behind the others. 

 

There are cries of delight as they pass the window to the visiting suite—cold, grey, impersonal as the rest of this fucking place—childish shouts of names and waving through the glass. Everyone reverts to child-like dependence when faced with a bright spot in such a grey existence. Everyone except Patrick.

 

Patrick sees him first, at least, he _thinks_ he does. Dark hair falling into his eyes as he hunches over the table, staring down at his hands, weary resignation etched into the slump of his shoulders. He looks paler than usual, Patrick notices with a pang, there are smudges under his eyes so dark that they look like black eyes and his fingers lace and unlace compulsively. 

 

He wants to stand where he is forever, just wants to lean against the glass and observe the unobserved, to recall every second of their time together. The whispered promise of _I love you_ in a cold room on a worn mattress. He aches for him, his heart slamming into his ribs as though his chest will burst, his lungs tight and painful. Pete glances up, and for a moment, just a brief second, their eyes meet. Pete smiles, hesitantly hopeful, half raises his hand in a cautious wave. Patrick can imagine crossing the room to him, throwing his arms around his neck and pressing his mouth to those soft, gentle lips.

 

He turns, shakes his head at the accompanying guard, mutters a quick, “I don’t want to talk to him.” 

 

The guard rolls his eyes in irritation but Patrick has rights and he knows it, he’ll kick up a fuss, he’ll shout and yell and make accusations. He doesn’t need to as the guard acquiesces and shoves him back through into the recreation room. Patrick doesn’t look back through the window, can’t bear to even though every fibre of his being screams at him to do so. He can’t bring himself to see the hurt flare in amber eyes, to see him shatter a little, even if Patrick can’t understand why Pete would even care. He’s not worth spilled tears; a care kid, a whore, a juvie. 

 

No, he’s keeping Pete safe and the best thing he can do is forget all about Patrick. It won’t take long, Patrick’s sure, until he’s just a memory that raises a smile. He quite likes that idea, just a happy few moments in time on Pete’s journey through life, something he can look back on with affection, stolen kisses and gentle touches. Patrick’s glad he got them, knows he’ll hold them close for years to come.

 

Pete tries again the next visiting day, and again the one after, but Patrick isn't an idiot and refuses to leave the recreation room. The fourth time he’s told someone is here to speak to him he opens his mouth to refuse but the guard cuts him off.

 

“It’s your attorney, dumbass,” he snaps, an impatient gesture, a huffed breath. “Get on your feet.”

 

He follows him down the corridors, doesn’t object when he’s snapped into cuffs— _you’re in there alone with him, don’t want you doing anything stupid_ —just rolls his eyes and follows him into the briefing room. Pete’s friend—Joe, he’s pretty sure he’s called Joe—smiles at him from his chair, fusses around him like he’s five checking the cuffs are comfortable, does he need a drink, is he being treated well…

 

“Do you need to ask that?” Patrick asks softly. “Or did Pete tell you to ask me?”

 

“Pete would want to know,” Joe confirms and Patrick immediately decides he likes him - no ridiculous bullshit like he’s ten and doesn’t recognise his ass from his elbow. “But I’m also legally obliged to make sure they’re taking good care of you. You’re a minor, after all. So… _Are_ they taking good care of you?”

 

“It’s fine,” Patrick shrugs, pushing the shower incident to the back of his mind. “They feed me, they clothe me, I get an hour of TV a day. Can’t complain.”

 

Joe is engrossed in the paperwork in front of him but nods politely, lips pursed lightly and brows drawn into a frown. Patrick watches him with interest, the way he tugs at his left ear as he reads, or worries at his lower lip as he highlights a line or a passage. He seems nice. Exactly the kind of friend Patrick would have imagined for Pete, kind and no-nonsense. 

 

“So,” Patrick begins idly. “What’s the deal? I’m a minor, right, so… I mean, how bad can it be?”

 

“Patrick,” Joe looks up with that same frown etched into his features like scars, but edged with a hint of disbelieving dread, as though he didn’t realise how dumb Patrick actually is and he has terrible news to share. “You know that’s not how it works, right?”

 

Patrick shakes his head with a vague shrug. He’s not a fucking idiot, he knows Joe talked about thirty year sentences but that was a worst case scenario, he’s seventeen and, for once, being a kid works in his favour. He might not know a lot about the legal system but he knows enough that his age has to count for something. Whilst he hadn’t been expecting to have his conviction expunged on his eighteenth birthday he’d sort of thought that, once he hit twenty-one this whole thing would be brushed under the rug and he’d be free to go. Joe’s eyes darken like storm clouds over the lake, a slow crawl of dread wrapping ice cold around Patrick’s gut.

 

“You’re seventeen…” Joe begins, in a way that suggests it isn’t the good thing that Patrick assumed it was. “They’re going to try you as an adult…”

 

“What?” Patrick begins cautiously. “What does that really _mean,_ though?”

 

He’s heard the phrase before, it’s the kind of thing thrown around on criminal justice shows but it doesn’t really make any sense. He’s either an adult, or he’s not, and everyone seems pretty keen to keep reminding him that he’s absolutely a kid in all of the most important ways. Surely to God, they can’t just decide on a whim that he _is_ an adult after all when it comes to dealing with the shitty stuff? 

 

“It means exactly what it sounds like,” Joe looks stricken, like he can’t believe he has to explain this, like he thought Patrick already knew. “It means they’ll treat you like you’re over eighteen. It means thirty years in a federal correctional facility.”

 

“Oh,” Patrick replies faintly, the ground underneath his chair tipping and tilting dangerously as bile climbs up his throat. Federal prison. With the serial killers and child abusers and rapists and violent criminals and fucking gang members. He’s smart, he knows that, he’s quick-witted and knows how to look after himself but he’s not ready for federal prison, they’ll eat him alive. Daily beatings, probably rape, he’s not particularly vain but he knows he’s reasonably cute in a twink sort of way and doesn’t doubt for a second what will be waiting for him. “Is that… You’re not just fucking with me?”

 

“No, Patrick,” Joe smiles, a gesture filled with sadness. “I’m absolutely not fucking with you.”

 

“Right,” he nods briskly and squares his shoulders and tries to keep the fear from his eyes as he looks up. This is what he has to do to keep Brendon safe, there isn’t middle ground, there isn’t another option. It doesn’t stop the tears catching at the back of his throat or the ache in his chest for the life he won’t get to lead. “I guess that’s what’s gonna happen then.”

 

“Patrick, _please,_ just…” Joe trails off to roughly scrub at his face. “Pete knows where you were that night, he saw you-”

 

“He fucking _saw_ me?” Patrick isn’t stupid, he knows that really isn’t the important detail to take away from this conversation, but anger is an emotion he has more experience of dealing with than the crushing sadness that fell over him just a moment ago so he seizes it like an old lover, shrugs it on like a comfortable jacket and allows it to blaze through him. “That sick motherfucker, you tell him, tell him _this_ is why I won’t speak to his pathetic ass when he shows up here.”

 

“Don’t be an asshole, Patrick,” Joe snaps sharply. “He’s done some shitty stuff but he cares about you, way more than anyone else you have in your corner right now, don’t be so fucking determined to dismiss someone from what, let’s face it, is a really fucking small team.”

 

“Tell him to stay away from me,” Patrick snarls.

 

“I can’t tell him anything, he doesn’t listen to me,” Joe sighs deeply and scrapes a hand through his hair. “But if I were you, I’d think really carefully about retracting my confession, giving the name of the kid you were with that night and letting me do a stand up job of getting you out of here. And, so we’re clear, Pete’s going to keep coming back, every visitation, just because he wants to see you-”

 

“Like he wanted to see me that night?” Patrick laughs, hard and ugly. “Fucking creeper.”

 

“He’s in love with you,” Joe hisses through clenched teeth. “It’s unhealthy, I get that, _he_ gets that, but that’s how he feels, and he seems to think you were pretty okay with that until something happened to make you walk into a police precinct and confess to a crime he knows you couldn’t possibly have committed. Now, are you going to start giving me some names and letting me help you?”

 

Patrick allows all of that to wash over him—Pete is in love with him, to the point that he told his friends—allows the idea of being loved to become more than a distant fantasy. He never imagined himself as loveable, always assumed with Pete that he was a fun little distraction, too young and angry and downright fucking _annoying_ to ever be anything more than a fling. Fun while it lasted but not long term. He closes his eyes for just a moment and imagines the life he pictured whilst he stood out on the street, the paperwork and the coffee and tender smiles and heartfelt kisses that taste of bitter americano and sweet adoration.

 

_I know where he lives, guero, I know the apartment, wouldn’t take much for me to wait for him to come home one night…_

 

“I did it,” Patrick insists hoarsely. “You can’t prove otherwise.”

 

“Seriously?” Irritation is bright in Joe’s tone, that condescending note that Patrick’s so used to when adults talk to him. Just a stupid kid, idiotic, foolish, lacking common sense. They’ll never understand him, they never take the time to try, it’s easier to just retreat back into himself and nod sullenly. “I’m not just letting this go. _Pete_ won’t just let this-”

 

“Pete,” Patrick spits with venom that stings and burns his throat, hisses across his tongue and flies with unerring precision at Joe. “Has no say in what I do with _my_ fucking life.”

 

“Some fucking life,” Joe snaps, gathering up his paperwork. “I’ll be back next week. Maybe we’ll have a hearing date. Oh, and Patrick? Try being a little fucking _nicer_ to Pete, yeah?”

 

It’s not the first time he’s heard that request. His ears still ring with the last words Brendon spat at him, the last words he’ll ever hear Brendon say because _fuck,_ thirty years is a long-ass time and by the time he’s released Brendon will be… He can’t finish that thought, because he doesn’t fucking _know_ where Brendon will be in three decades. Married with kids? All grown up. 

 

He stares down at the table top and promises himself that he won’t cry, that he won’t give in to the flood of raw panic that threatens to drown him. He watches Joe shove everything back into his briefcase, watches him swing on an expensive-looking coat and a soft, wool scarf, so similar to the one Pete wears that he has to comment, “That scarf? It’s like Pete’s…”

 

He has nothing else to add, feels fucking stupid for opening his mouth as Joe frowns in confusion, reaching up to touch the material softly. A soft smile spreads across his face and he speaks quietly, “My wife… She said we were ridiculous not having scarves in winter in Chicago, I feel like less of an asshole when he wears his too…” He trails off fondly before continuing with an edge to his voice that sounds like a thousand questions even though he poses none. “He _loves_ you, kid.”

 

“Uh… Joe?” Patrick considers how he wants to continue as Joe gathers up the last of his things, imagines the ways he could answer, the things he could ask Joe to say or do to let Pete know that he loves Pete too. He wants to ask him to tell Pete that the thought of their time together is the only thing keeping him sane, memories of warm skin, warm eyes and blood-bright touches. He wants to beg him to tell Pete that the night they slept in his bed is the best memory from his seventeen years and eight months of shitty fucking _existence._ Instead, he conjures up eyes that burn with a charred sort of dark menace, of a handsome mouth that curls into a bright smile but spits endless, venomous threats. He imagines Pete, crumpled and broken at the bottom of an apartment building stairwell. He _imagines_ and he speaks, voice hard. “Tell him to leave me the fuck alone.”

 

For a moment—just a brief second or two in time—Joe simply stares at him, eyes devoid of any readable expression, jaw working slightly. Patrick returns his gaze with nothing but pure, blazing defiance, arrogance etched on each line of his face, chin tilted up and fists clenched. He stares and he hopes that Joe can’t see the tremor in his jaw, the way his hands shake against his knees. He waits as sweat slicks his palms, as his mouth dries and his eyes sting.

 

“I wish he would,” Joe heads for the door without a backward glance. “I’ll see you next week.”

 

Pete visits every day. Seven-thirty each night. He must come straight from the office, must take the L across to the west side of the city and the Illinois Youth Center. He must have pulled so many strings it’s crossed from _personal favour_ to _I have incriminating pictures and I won’t hesitate to release them._ Either way, Patrick responds to each visitor announcement in the same fashion, steadfastly keeping his eyes on the TV screen and shrugging like it doesn’t fucking matter. Because _how_ can it fucking _matter?_

 

And each night, when the kids return from the visiting room alight with eager talk or damp with desperate tears, Patrick _aches_ from his chest to his stomach. Someone cares about him, someone cares as much they care about these _other_ kids, the ones Patrick’s always assumed were in some way better than him. He goes to his bunk below Spencer’s as the lights click out and he cries. He tries to keep it silent, tries to grit his teeth and let his pillow muffle his sobs. Most of all he tries not to think about inked arms tight around him, murmured whispers in his ear, lips on his head, his brow, his cheeks. Each day it becomes harder to crush down the sobs when false dawn breaks with lights on at seven. Each day he struggles to slip the mask back into place that’s held firm throughout his lifetime in the care system, in Gabe’s house, in an abandoned, half-built office block.

 

Close to a week of his own company is too much time to reflect, to think over everything Joe had said and everything he knows lies ahead of him. Thirty years. Three decades of pain and fear, of no Brendon and no Pete, just a narrow bunk and an orange jumpsuit. 

 

It’s day after day of wondering if Gabe even kept his promise to leave Brendon alone - how would Patrick even find out otherwise, trapped as he is in a detention centre? At least he’s reassured each night that Pete is okay when his name is listed on the visitor register. Each day it becomes a little harder to ignore him, another day that no one’s spoken to him, another day he’s spent alone and staring at nothing. 

 

Would retracting his confession really be so bad? Would Gabe find out? Maybe he could just say they didn’t believe him, the charges were dropped, that wouldn’t be _his_ fault. Gabe couldn’t hurt anyone for something Patrick didn’t do...

 

On the sixth day after Joe’s visit, the call for visitors rings out through the recreation room, his name on the list, and he pauses, slides a glance to the left and away from the TV screen. There’s a clutch in his chest, a sharp jolting snag that hurts, it fucking _stings,_ it pounds through his bloodstream and aches into his bones and—trying not to think about it too much—he stands and joins the line. The walk to the visiting room is short, a shuffle of grey sweatpants, grey sweatshirts, grey sneakers, grey boys. 

 

Pete is sat towards the back and tucked into a corner at a small table, head bowed, hands folded, shoulders slumped. He doesn’t check the line like the other visitors, doesn’t wave in excitement, he’s clearly prepared to leave, half out of his seat, half an eye on the clock. They enter the room like a riot, all eager eyes and half-starved hugs. There are tears and shouts and declarations and Patrick remains still in the surge, unsure at the door as he shuffles forward, inches towards Pete. He’s hesitant hands and soft smiles and burning tears that claw at his throat as he brushes testing fingertips against a cotton-clad shoulder.

 

“Hey,” he whispers, still standing, uncertain, at the side of the table as amber eyes snap to his, as soft lips frame half questions and a whispered gasp. There’s a tangle of sinewy limbs as Pete staggers to his feet, a moment of crushing warmth as he’s dragged to a solid chest, hauled in tight and close and _safe._

 

There’s a moment, just a fraction of time, when he presses back, _pours_ his love and need and want into Pete like he can take it away and mould it into something that will make Patrick whole again. There’s a second, just a beat of two hearts and a glance at a distracted guard, when he pushes his lips to a soft mouth, over before it began. Then its cold plastic chairs and weak, watery coffee and honey-gold eyes that plead and implore and beg for answers. There are _I’ve missed yous_ and _are you okays all tied up with why didn’t you…_ and _I was so fucking worried._

 

And Patrick wants to answer, wants to say the words Pete needs to hear, but his mouth opens and a single sentence spills out before he can call it back, the truth burning his tongue as he reaches for the hand on the table, as he feels the warmth of Pete’s skin and wills it to flow into his own.

 

“I didn’t fucking do it, Pete, I just… I want to go home, back to the apartment… with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this, I really, truly do. It would be really nice to hear what you thought of it, if you possibly have the time? 
> 
> Almost the weekend...


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's had a fabulous week so far. Almost Thanksgiving for those of you of the American persuasion so, merry turkey day or however it is that you greet one another tomorrow. Me, I'll be watching the UK descend into anarchy as we absorb your wonderful Black Friday tradition the following day. Last year there was footage on the news of a man using other people to scale what appeared to be a pyramid of televisions. Anyway, yes, on with the story...

_I just… I want to go home, back to the apartment… with you._

 

Okay—this is the thing—Pete isn’t entirely fabulous at dealing with the kind of emotions that are thrown up by being involved in a relationship. He largely attributes that to spending six and a half of his, supposedly “best”, years pining after an emotionally abusive pathological liar. But—he’s pretty sure—even the most stable and well-adjusted of individuals, even the relationship gurus themselves, would struggle to know how to deal with the emotional vulnerability of a seventeen-year-old rent boy referring to an apartment he crashed in for a week as “home”. 

 

Of course, the relationship gurus, such as they are, probably wouldn’t have fucked, stalked and fallen in love with a seventeen year old rent boy over the course of maybe six weeks in the first place. But that’s semantics. 

 

He’s also aware that _I want to come home_ absolutely _isn’t_ the most important part of the jumble of words that Patrick—Patrick who’s ignored him for ten days—just uttered and maybe he should focus on the opening sentence instead. He takes a deep breath and, mindful of the staff at the facility and the CCTV cameras positioned around the room, delicately withdraws his hand. Patrick crumples a little, lower lip quivering, and he wants to reassure him that’s not what he means, not what he _wants_ but… Well, CCTV. Instead, he begins to speak.

 

“I know you didn’t do it, dumbass,” he murmurs, gentle reassurance in kind glances and soft words. _I want to hold you, don’t ever think I don’t, I want to grab you and never let go._ “Why the hell did you tell them you did it in the first place?”

 

“I can’t tell you,” Patrick mumbles, thumbnail caught between his teeth. “But I can just… I can tell them it wasn’t me, right? And then…”

 

Pete’s stomach hurts, his head pounds and his vision swims for a moment because Patrick _doesn’t fucking get it._ He sits there, all huddled and small like he wants to disappear, wants to just sink down into the chair and never climb back out and he doesn’t understand. _He’s seventeen,_ Pete reminds himself, remembering the stupid shit he did at that age, the things his dad was able to sweep under the rug so it wouldn’t damage his chances of getting into college. Patrick thinks he has the world figured out, thinks there’s nothing an adult can teach him, but in reality there’s so much that he doesn’t understand. Like the complexities of the criminal justice system in the state of Illinois.

 

“Patrick,” Pete begins softly, a hand on his knee under the table, comforting, gentle. “Joe’s been talking to the officer in charge and they know you didn’t do it, that’s what he’s coming to talk to you about tomorrow. But you knew _so much_ about that crime scene, I-”

 

“I was told everything,” Patrick cuts in desperately. “I wasn’t… You _know_ I wasn’t there, you know where I was, I… I didn’t _do_ anything.”

 

“I know, man,” he soothes, squeezes Patrick’s thigh lightly, withdraws his hand quickly as one of the guards begins to stare. “But they know you know _something,_ they know you know who _did_ do it, so they’re setting you up for aiding and abetting. Look, I shouldn’t be telling you any of this so try to look fucking surprised tomorrow when they come in with Joe to charge you, but you need to… You need to _tell me_ something.”

 

“I can’t give you his name,” Patrick’s voice is faint and soft, his eyes sharp with panic as they bounce around the room like he’s checking for exit points. Probably a habit borne of spending time in the company of strange men. “He… He said he’d hurt Brendon. He said he’d hurt _you.”_

 

The words hit Pete like a punch to the gut, breath sucked in sharp as knives as his palm slaps against the table between them. Patrick’s doing this, _this,_ detained by the state, facing a federal facility until he’s middle-aged and for what? For the asshole in a suit that should have stayed away from him. Guilt burns him raw, needles his spine and leaves him gasping and spluttering for words that won’t come around the tears that lodge a solid lump in his throat. The kid is a fucking idiot. He’s foolhardy and stupid and unable to see what a ridiculous sacrifice he’s making for no good reason at all—how can he protect _anyone_ from inside of a cell?—but he’s loyal and genuine and something bright and needing is burning in his eyes as he looks at Pete.

 

“‘Trick, babe,” Patrick blushes at the term of endearment, a charming red flush that creeps across his cheeks as a shy smile steals across his lips. “Listen to me, whoever it is that’s saying he’ll hurt Brendon, we can deal with that. Brendon can be taken some place safe until all of this is over, there are witness protection schemes, they can put things in place-”

 

“He’s too smart for that,” Patrick objects and Pete wants to shake him until his teeth rattle. “He’ll figure it out.”

 

“He _won’t,_ Patrick,” Pete snaps, anger and fear making his words too sharp, too angry and bitter and Patrick flinches back and away from him, huddling further into his seat. “You need to tell me the name of the kid that was with you that night. The tall one, the one you were always eating face with,” he spits out the last words like they burn his tongue and he knows it’s unfair, Patrick’s just a kid, he was just having fun or enticing clients or whatever but even so, the jealousy eats through Pete. “Tell me who he is and where to find him and we have a shot at getting you out of here.”

 

“Seriously?” Patrick arches a brow and sharpens his tongue. “You’re gonna give me shit about making out with someone when I literally— _literally_ —sucked dick for cash?” It’s Pete’s turn to burn bright and glowing as he stares down sullenly at the table top for a few seconds, the heat intensifying exponentially as Patrick laughs softly, “Are you fucking _blushing,_ dude?”

 

Pete wants to tell him to go to hell, wants to tell him he’s not a jealous asshole even though he knows he absolutely _is._ But—if he’s being completely honest here—what he really wants to do is just take Patrick home, to lay on couch with him and marathon Star Wars, order Thai food and just… Forget the world exists for a time. That’s not an option, he rubs his jaw, the rough grate of stubble reminding him just how long it’s been since he last made the effort to shave. He glances up, holds Patrick’s gaze for a moment before speaking quietly, “Please. Just give me his name, that’s all.”

 

Patrick wavers for a moment, Pete can see the indecision flickering across soft, boyish features, can almost taste the name tripping off the tip of a soft, pink tongue and rolling over lush lips like tender kisses. He also sees the exact moment Patrick’s resolve renews, the way his fist clenches against the tabletop and can predict the words before he draws the defiant breath to speak them.

 

“I don’t know his name,” he shrugs nonchalantly though his fingers tremble and his voice shakes just a bit, like the man on the gallows he’s making himself become. “I’m gonna tell Joe all of this tomorrow,” he nods sharply, like his certainty is all it hinges on. “It’ll be _fine,_ man, you’ll see. It’ll all be totally fine.”

 

Pete wishes he shared the kid’s easy confidence. Patrick refuses to discuss the case any further, instead he questions Pete about work and listens with a soft little smile on his lips as Pete complains about his boss and talks inanely about his last soccer game. He leans forward eagerly to hear the mundane details, grins and sighs and rolls his eyes at appropriate points and it hits Pete like something solid. He’s imagining he’s home, curled up on Pete’s couch with cocoa and one of those ugly Ikea blankets, feet kicked up in Pete’s lap, wearing ratty pajamas as they chat over their day. He’s imagining domestic. He’s playing _normal_ and Pete’s heart breaks for him.

 

“Pete?” Patrick mutters eventually, a soft sort of brokenness to his voice as he plucks at the skin around his thumbnail. “I don’t understand… _Why_ are you doing this?”

 

“Doing what?” He asks with a puzzled frown.

 

“Look at you,” Patrick shifts a little against his seat, discomfiture etched in every feature. “You’re smart, you’ve been to school, you’ve got a good job. What the fuck does someone like you want with someone like me?”

 

Pete considers his reply as he watches Patrick drum his fingertips lightly against the tabletop, as he shuffles down and in on himself like he wants to disappear. 

 

“When I was about your age,” he begins softly, the urge to take Patrick’s hand almost overwhelming. “I met a guy. He was older than me, one of my professors in college in fact. He was… Sort of an abusive prick, if I’m being honest. We were together for six years before I found out he was married, had been the whole time, he had kids, a nice house, everything.”

 

Patrick’s eyes widen a little and, forbidden or not, he reaches across and grazes warm fingertips against the back of Pete’s hand.

 

“When we first met, I was fucking terrified that I was just like him,” a sigh shudders through him, tremoring down to his core as he recalls the agony of continuing the cycle of abuse, of dragging Patrick down the way Adam broke him. “But I realised something - I didn’t care if you didn’t want to be with me. I mean, I _want_ you to, fuck, I want it so badly, but if you didn’t want to, I’d still be doing what I’m doing, still trying… trying to help. Does that make sense?”

 

He wants it to make sense, wants Patrick to realise that everything he’s done for him has come from something selfless. He’d have given him a place to stay regardless, he’d have helped Brendon either way, he’d do anything, give any part of himself that would make Patrick happy and ask for nothing in return. That’s the difference between him and Adam, that’s what sets them apart; he’s not a predator, preying on a child and taking advantage of emotional vulnerability. He’s a man in love regardless of the number on a birth certificate. 

 

“Thanks,” Patrick whispers, and Pete thinks there might be the glitter of unshed tears in his eyes. “For everything. Just… thank you.”

 

The time is called on their visit after an hour and it’s not enough, he can’t touch him although he craves it, can’t send him back into the cold grey of the facility though he knows he has no choice. Patrick apparently cares not for the rules as he throws his arms around Pete’s neck and hugs him fiercely for a second of two, the sharp heat of his body jolting into Pete like car crashes. He muffles an _I love you_ into Pete’s shoulder and Pete tucks an _I love you too,_ like secret notes, in the soft hair just above his ear. 

 

“You’ll come back?” Patrick sounds panicked for a moment, hesitating to join the line of boys waiting to head back to their rooms. 

 

“Tomorrow,” Pete promises. Every day, he thinks, tomorrow and all of the tomorrows that come after it until he has him home and safe. “Goodnight, try to get some sleep, okay? You look wrecked.”

 

Patrick smiles and shrugs, joins the line. He won’t look back, Pete knows it, but still he waits until that dirty blonde hair, still kind of in need of a trim, rounds the corner and there’s nothing left but the suggestion of imprinted warmth against his chest and a murmured _I love you_ burnt into his skin.

 

*

 

Joe had regarded him warily from the moment he’d uttered the words _can I borrow your car, dude?_ It’s like Pete is untrustworthy and Joe is naturally suspicious of him, blue eyes narrowed in silent questions he won’t ask and Pete won’t answer because then he’s implicated and neither of them want that. Silence is the way to deal with things like this, Pete decides, silence has saved many a friendship and Pete sees no sense in breaking such a long standing and fine tradition by providing information Joe doesn’t need to know.

 

Pete sits behind the wheel of the sensible little Prius—Joe Trohman, the owner of a ‘74 Firebird back in college was definitely _not_ the driving force behind the purchase of the hybrid—well back from the glow of the street lights. Pete sits and he waits and he _watches,_ eyes squinting through the glass as he searches and stares, assessing each boy that gathers under the street lights. There’s no willowy teen in skinny jeans that don’t quite hug tight to his slender legs, a white t-shirt with a neckline that slashes low to expose prominent collarbones and his elegant throat, no leather jacket and soft waves of dark hair. 

 

If Pete’s being honest—again, he would like to reiterate that self-evaluation is _not_ his strong suit—he hates himself a little for the burning jealousy he feels whenever he thinks about the kid and Patrick. Because once this is all done and Patrick is home and safe what’s to say he won’t go looking for the other boy, for someone young and pretty and everything he deserves. They look good together, Pete knows that, he’s not an idiot, the blonde and the dark, the tall lanky frame wrapped around Patrick’s short stockiness. Pete wonders if they’ve fucked outside of work, if he’s wrapped those long legs around Patrick, all that smooth, pale skin wound together in endless looping swirls, dirty blonde hair mixing with chocolate brown, Patrick’s thick, hard cock sliding inside of-

 

He taps the heel of his hand sharply against his forehead, as though he can physically dislodge the jealous thoughts chasing their tails around his head. He hasn’t slept properly in weeks—since the night he curled around Patrick in his bed, if he’s honest—and his mind feels like it’s turning in on itself, haunting him. This other kid, this other _whore,_ is an outlet for all of the frustration he feels, all of the pain and sheer, overwhelming uselessness as he breathes down Joe’s neck as he works on Patrick’s case, picking up papers, highlighting words and sliding them back, handing him legal texts and frameworks with silent instructions burning in his eyes, earning nothing but black looks and growled admonishments, pleas to _“let me do my fucking job, dude.”_

 

Pete’s a _good_ lawyer. He’s the best he fucking knows for tenacity and attention to detail. He’s the best chance Patrick would have of wriggling away from this without further issues, with a clear record and no more said. But instead, Patrick has Joe and whilst Pete loves him very much, Joe is _not_ a good lawyer. Joe is slapdash and rushed, he doesn’t pay attention to the finer points, he ploughs ahead when it’s clear his argument isn’t working. Joe is also a stubborn little bitch who won’t accept any of this and definitely won’t accept help.

 

Pete fiddles with the radio in the little Toyota, messing with the stations, getting a perverse thrill of satisfaction from adjusting all of Joe’s presets to Country music stations. 

 

 _”Are we together?”_ Patrick had asked cautiously, voice low and features hidden behind messy blonde hair and thick glasses, as they sat opposite one another in the utilitarian visiting room. Of all of the questions he should have been asking two hours after being charged with aiding and abetting an attempted murder, that didn’t seem like the most important one. But he’d touched the back of Patrick’s pale, trembling hands with the tips of his fingers, traced the curve of his knuckles and murmured back _“only if it’s what you want.”_ The smile from Patrick had been worth the glare from the guard.

 

A car rolls alongside the streetlight, brakelights sun bright, door open, exiting boy with long, dark hair and sinuous grace wrapped in a black leather jacket and skinny jeans. Pete’s seen pale fingers caught in that hair, seen lips pushed flush to a mouth that he’s tasted himself and it doesn’t matter, it’s none of his business, the jealousy is childish, and yet…

 

He knocks the Prius into drive and inches slowly down the street, the way the johns do, pulls up to the curb and rolls down the window. The boys are all bright with inviting smiles and playful catcalls, they comment on his car, how pretty he is, which one gets the honour of his company and he frowns—there’s one towards the back that can’t be more than fifteen—waits for them to quiet down then raises his eyebrows at the tall one, “You.”

 

“Hey, you’re a man that knows what he wants, I like that,” words spill full of naughty mischief from smiling lips whilst tired eyes scream _not a-fucking-gain._ Pete tries not to think about what he’s just done with the last guy, what he’s anticipating Pete might make him do, where he might plan to shove his cock when they park someplace quiet, if Pete will be gentle. It’s hard to be jealous of the kid now he can see the dark circles under his eyes, the way his skin is stretched taut over his cheekbones as he slips into the passenger seat with a faraway smile. “So, what can I do for you?”

 

“Let me find someplace to park,” Pete won’t look at the kid, eyes ahead, the black ribbon of road that glitters frost-bright in the winter cold. Too cold for a leather jacket and thin t-shirt. Pete knows exactly how cold the poor kid’s hands will be, the skin rough-dry from the chill. They deserve better than what life has dealt them, those boys under the streetlight, they deserve someone that cares about them, someone that keeps them warm.

 

A left, a right, across this intersection and looping around the next one, Pete weaves through the streets looking for some place they won’t be disturbed, for the quiet alley or darkened parking lot just like the rest of the johns. He finds it eventually, backing the little car down an alley next to a Portuguese restaurant, the smell of barbeque heavy in the air. The kid grins at him, reaches for his zipper without hesitation, wanton invitation in each line of his face as he purrs softly, “Okay, handsome. What’s it gonna be tonight?”

 

No rules, no money, this kid definitely worked with Patrick, of that much Pete’s sure, the irritation coiling tight in his gut. _The patron saint of rent boys,_ that’s what Patrick had called him, and he can feel another lecture building sharp on his tongue. Instead he snags the cold hand before it can catch at his crotch, chocolate brown eyes widen in surprise and the cocksure grin melts from sugar sweet lips. But only for a second, “Something wrong, cutie?”

 

Pete considers his response—careful, thorough—he approaches it with the mind of a lawyer not the heart of a lovesick fool worried half to death about a pretty blonde boy in a cold grey room. He thinks about the best way to approach it as Dolly Parton begs Jolene not to take her man just because she can over the speakers. Jolene is a bitch, Pete’s always thought that, but surely the fault lies with the dude bouncing between two women and… Okay. Alright. Now probably isn’t the time to analyse country songs. He glances at the kid, fidgeting with hands clasped in his lap, twisting his fingers one over the other over the other then unknotting them and starting again, panic attack pout of a bitten lip and barely concealed panted breathing. He’s not like Patrick, he’s sweet and soft, Pete can tell that already, he lacks the cocky veneer of arrogance that Patrick can shrug on like a warm coat. He’s so badly suited to what he’s doing it’s almost laughable except it’s not funny, it’s just tragic.

 

“What’s your name?” Pete asks, soft as a mother’s touches. He’s not jealous any more, there’s only pity for this shivering boy in the passenger seat as he cranks up the heat to try and urge some warmth into those paper pale hands.

 

“Are you a cop?” The kid asks warily. “Because, like, if you are then I just… I’m just trying to make a bit of cash, man, I-”

 

“I’m not a cop,” Pete assures him gently. “And I’m gonna pay you for your time. But you won’t have to do anything… Like that. Not with me. I just want to talk to you.”

 

The silence is endless and deafening as Dolly continues to sing out her heartbreak, as the clock on the dash glows with neon bright numbers that click by once, twice, then he speaks, hesitant and so whisper-soft that Pete barely catches it, “Will. My name… It’s William.”

 

Will. `Trick and Will, Patrick and William. Yeah—don’t tell him, he fucking _knows,_ okay—the envy isn’t a good look on him, particularly given the subject of his envy is a shivering teenager that services men for money. But he can’t dislodge the images of the two of them wound around one another, a perfect canvas of porcelain, pretty pale boys with hands everywhere. 

 

“I’m Pete,” he extends his hand but Will just stares and tucks his own under his thighs—to warm them or avoid contact, Pete just isn’t sure—and stares studiously at the radio. “I’m a… _friend_ of Patrick’s.”

 

That grabs Will’s attention, brown eyes snapping sharp as knives to Pete’s, the twitch of lips that want to frame a dozen questions but bite them away like dirty secrets. Skinny hands move to a skinny lap and ball into tight fists, relaxing against the length of slender thighs then coiling sharp once again. A breath huffs between plump, flushed lips, a whisper of sound against the twang of Conway Twitty and then Will speaks, “Is he okay?”

 

Pete shrugs because no, Patrick isn’t okay, not in the broadest sense of the term although he might not be at any immediate risk of harm. He shrugs and he regards Will carefully until their eyes meet, until the awkward silence between them rises to a deafening crescendo that Pete won’t break.

 

“Please,” Will whispers, thumbs biting pale crescents into hands that are slowly flushing pink under trickling jets of warm recycled air. “Just tell me if he’s okay. Gabe… He said he’d got rid of him and… Did he mean…?”

 

Gabe. Pete files that away for later, doesn’t want to terrify the kid by prompting him to say any more about a man whose very name makes him curl in on himself a little. Whoever the fuck Gabe is, Pete could quite happily imagine the various ways he could pay him back for hurting these kids, for taking advantage of their vulnerability, for profiting from their need. But that’s for another time, he reminds himself, right now he has another task at hand, something as delicate as morning mist.

 

“He’s okay,” Pete reassures the kid, feels a stab of pain at the stricken sob that bursts from a broken boy. “Hey, come on. Don’t-”

 

He isn’t expecting the crushing hug, the way Will hurls himself against Pete’s chest and buries his face against his neck, the tears that soak his shirt collar in salt, pain and desperate need. He hugs back, pulling the kid close for a moment and absorbing some of that hurt—how close are they? Does Will miss him like Pete misses him?—cradles him close until the sobbing subsides to stuttering breaths and embarrassed retreat, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have. I just… Where is he?”

 

Pete isn’t ready to break this kid’s heart—and surely he will—and yet he owes the poor boy the truth, the kid looks fit to cry out his heart. There’s a devious part of Pete too, the attorney part, the corner of his psyche that recalls the words of his college professor _“a distraught witness is an honest witness,”_ the part that knows this is absolutely the moment to strike.

 

“He’s in jail, Will,” he delivers the blow with careful precision, watches eyes that spring wide then screw closed, the way the chest hitches and heaves as he claws at oxygen like he’s drowning, the way he shakes his head and mouths something unintelligible. “He’s looking at thirty years.”

 

“No,” Will murmurs into hands cupped over his mouth—a kid used to panic attacks—curtain of hair moving like billowing waves as he rocks and shakes and breathes through the anxiety. Pete feels bad for him but not as bad as he feels for Patrick, lets it play out in silence. “He can’t. You’re not… You’re lying. Patrick wouldn’t… He never did _anything_ …”

 

“I know,” Pete agrees amicably, although the rip through his chest is agony, the sharp tear of it at the thought of Patrick alone and small in a federal jail enough to have him close to joining Will in the anxiety attack. “I know he didn’t. And I think you know it too, I think you can help him. Do you want to help him, Will?”

 

The Dixie Chicks are singing something sad and slow and Will smacks at the dial with an irritated snarl. Pete watches and waits in silence although he longs to grab Will by the collar and demand an answer, to shake him until he tells Pete everything he needs to know. He leans back into the seat and grasps the steering wheel lightly as the silence rings in his ears, deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. 

 

“What do you need me to do?” The question is delivered with the kind of wary reticence reserved for a boy that’s had to carry out acts he never even thought about until some dirty, pathetic man— _just like Pete_ —whispered them into his ear in the back of a car— _just like this one_ —until rough hands guided his mouth to places it didn’t want to be. Until cocks he didn’t want to touch slid against places he didn’t want to share. Pete itches with shame even though it wasn’t Will, even though it wasn’t the same, his skin crawls with self-loathing.

 

And now, of course, Pete needs to break him a little further, to terrify him just a little more because, really, how can his request do anything but? Will is curled in on himself against the upholstery, any hint of the smirking boy that reached for Pete’s zipper is long gone and this, this broken kid, is the reality, this is what the boys do when they’re not under the streetlight. Pete feels sick, a swirl of bile burning up his throat that he forces down, makes himself breathe slow and steady as he watches Will, watches him gasp in desperate panic. He reaches across, touches a slim shoulder and feels Will flinch beneath his palm. But he calms, leans into the touch after a moment—when was the last time someone touched him kindly? Was it Patrick?—and meets Pete’s eyes with a trembling smile.

 

“Just tell me,” he sighs. “I want to help.”

 

“Do you remember what you were doing on the night of Saturday the twenty-fifth of last month?” Pete asks softly, Will looks blank for a moment, eyes distant as he tries to make sense of the question he’s been asked. It sounds like a cross-examination which isn’t quite the tone he was going for but what choice does he have?

 

“Saturday twen-” He bites it off, chews his lip and shrugs delicately. “I mean… I work Saturdays. On the street, you know?”

 

“It was four weeks ago,” Pete prompts gently. “I think you might have done a… A _job,_ with Patrick?”

 

Will is still chewing that lip, chapped and sore-looking from the biting Chicago wind that’s starting to swirl with snow. It’ll be Christmas in a couple days, a day Will’s going to spend God knows where and Patrick’s going to spend in a detention facility. Pete’s heart aches for the boys, all of them, that gather under the streetlight. 

 

“Do you love him?” Will asks eventually, and there’s a tremor to his voice and a shake in his lower lip as tears spark bright as the snowflakes settling on the sidewalk. Pete considers the best way to answer as Will stares down at his hands—pink now, warm—and picks at the skin around his thumb nail. 

 

“I do,” he murmurs eventually. “Do you?”

 

“He’s my best friend,” Will shrugs like it doesn’t matter, like his emotions aren’t worth a damn. “I care about him a lot. You seem… Nice. Will… will you take care of him? He’s nowhere close to as tough as he thinks he is, he needs… You can do that, right?”

 

“I swear I’ll do everything I can,” Pete promises, reaching for Will’s hand. He doesn’t resist as Pete wraps his fingers around Will’s, as he squeezes in a way he hopes is reassuring. “I’ll keep you safe, too. If you’ll let me.”

 

Will stares out of the window, watches the snowflakes melt as they touch the windscreen, his fingers tight as a desperate plea against Pete’s. He chews at his thumb as the snow swirls around the silent car, as the clock glows on the dash and illuminates each angular line of his pretty face. He’s heartbreaking, Pete thinks, an ethereal angel of a kid with his high cheekbones and pretty lips. When he speaks, his voice shakes and his teeth chatter with fear not cold, his nails sinking absently into Pete’s palm.

 

“I’m scared,” he whispers. “I’m… So fucking scared, man.”

 

“It’ll be okay,” Pete reassures him, heart soaring with the knowledge that this is it, this is what he needs to get Patrick home safely. A statement from Will should be enough to prompt an investigation into his story, they’ll check the cameras, see the car that took the kids to God knows where to do God knows what. Pete rejoices at the thought of delivering the kid straight into the hands of Frank _fucking_ Iero and wiping that smug, knowing little smirk right off his goddamn face. But first… “Hey, you like Portuguese food? Because I’m fucking starving and that place smells _amazing_ …”

 

Will nods, smiles small and tight as Pete leads the way from the car to the door of the restaurant. Tonight, he’ll pay the kid into a hotel room, some place warm and safe and far away from whoever the fuck Gabe is. Tomorrow morning, he’ll take him straight to the precinct to deliver his statement.

 

It’s going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would be marvellous to hear what you think, good, bad or otherwise. Kudos are great too, if you haven't already.
> 
> Have a wonderful Thanksgiving if you're celebrating, and a marvellous weekend even if you're not!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, somehow, we're at the penultimate chapter! How the hell did that happen so fast?
> 
> Thanks to Flames_and_Jade for helping me out so much with this, even if I've been insanely annoying with it. I hope you enjoy it...

There’s a quiet sort of tension in an empty police precinct, in the lull between breakfast and bar opening, in the silence that falls when the drunks have been sent home and the bad guys sleep away everyone else’s nightmares. In the expectant quiet, two men sit, heads bowed and hands clasped like sinners waiting for redemption, like desperate men calling on some higher being to help them. Two men wait, one so tight with nervous energy he might just vibrate into nothing, the other shining a projection of calm stoicism whilst his stomach rolls and his heart beats a burn against his ribs.

 

“You’ll stay with me, right?” Will asks quietly but with a desperate edge, the soft fragility of a boy that can’t take very much more. And yes, Pete wants to point out the obvious, he’s a public defender, he’s in a sexual relationship with a minor and he’s neck deep in a case he shouldn’t have touched with a forty foot pole. But instead he nods.

 

“Of course,” he murmurs, all quiet reassurance layered over the frantic pounding of his heart as he chews his nails and stares at the clock on the wall. He should have called Joe, that would have been the sensible thing to do, should have talked him through everything and introduced him to Will. But instead he charged in with both feet, gung ho and unthinking and what if he’s wrong? What if he’s messed up by scrolling to M instead of J in his contacts list, by typing out a message to the wrong friend?

 

“Pete?” He snaps alert, spine straight and eyes wide as Will’s nails dig sharp and bright into his arm. He smiles a greeting at his old friend and receives the usual disaffected shrug in response - Mikey never did really understand the whole social nicety thing - rising to his feet and tugging Will after him. The kid is shaking so hard it’s a wonder his legs don’t give out from underneath him, his face hidden behind the soft curtain of his hair as he ducks his head and gasps in panic.

 

“I can’t do this, Pete,” he hisses under his breath, tugging back, pulling away, eyes on the door and hips half turned to carry him away. “I’m sorry, I thought I could but I can’t, it’s just…”

 

“Hey,” Pete snags at a skinny elbow, hauling Will back gently with a softly gripped handful of black leather and a reassuring smile. “Come on, man, this is for Patrick, remember? You’ve _got_ this.”

 

“Frank’s waiting,” Mikey informs them, the slightest raise of his eyebrows as much animation as they’re likely to get as he leads them, winding through corridors that Pete could walk blindfold, seated in an interview room with a frowning Frank and - by some fucking miracle - a furious looking Joe.

 

“You,” Joe levels a finger directly at Frank who grins lazily and holds his hands up in a mocking gesture of compliance. “Keep your goddamn finger away from that record button for a second. And you,” he swings his hand in Pete’s direction, the sharp tip of his index finger finding the tender space between two ribs hard enough to make Pete wince, “Well, you’re a limited edition flavour dipshit, aren’t you? What… What the _fuck,_ Pete? You got any idea how much shit you’re gonna be in at the office if they find out about this? And you took my car to pick up a fucking rent boy-”

 

“Come on, man,” Pete cuts him off sharply. “He’s right here, bring it back a little, yeah?”

 

Joe makes a noise that’s somewhere between a disbelieving snort and an irritated huff, scraping a hand through his hair and shaking his head at the tabletop as though it can explain why his best friend is a complete asshole. Frank’s still grinning and Mikey’s just staring in that weird, intense way that he has, the kind that used to make guests at college parties shift just a little uncomfortably. He’s a killer detective though, perps don’t stand a chance if they’re being interviewed by Mikey Way. Will is wearing an expression that suggests he suspects the lunatics are now running the asylum as he huddles down a little further into his jacket, picking compulsively at the skin around his thumbnail that’s already raw and bleeding.

 

“Will?” Mikey interjects with a roll of his eyes. “Pete has to leave, Joe’s an attorney, he’s going to stay while you give your statement, are you okay with that?”

 

“You said you’d stay,” Will hisses furiously, dark eyes bright with anger. “You _promised.”_

 

“I’ll be right down the hall,” Pete presses assurance into slim shoulders as he grips gently, catching Will’s gaze with a toothy smile. “Patrick’s gonna be so goddamn _proud_ of you.”

 

That’s a lie, Pete thinks with a sigh, Patrick’s going to fucking kill him for involving Will. Indignant, angry little Patrick with fire in his eyes and fury in his belly, Pete grins at the thought as he takes a seat in the brief’s room with a weak coffee and a nervous tingle in his spine. It’s a nerve wracking hour before Will is brought back out and Frank beckons Pete into the interview room, taking a seat and waiting for Pete to do the same before unplugging the recording equipment with a sigh.

 

“Okay,” he begins, massaging his temples. “Okay, fine. Humour me. Let’s pretend for a moment that there’s a lawyer - a public defender, for example - and that douchebag got himself romantically involved with a seventeen year old rent boy. Let’s just pretend that the rent boy is pimped by the drug dealer we’ve had a file on for months and let’s just fucking _imagine_ that drug dealer shoots a kid in the chest for reasons as yet unknown.”

 

“You have a very vivid imagination,” Pete responds dryly.

 

“Don’t fucking test me, Wentz,” Frank growls, raking his hands through his hair with a sharp sigh. “Your boy says he was with Patrick the night of the shooting. He says they got into a grey MPV and went to a motel about two miles away with some dude that paid them to fuck each other, recorded the whole thing then left them at the motel.”

 

Pete hadn’t anticipated how hearing about Patrick’s working life might feel, hadn’t predicted the sharp twist to his gut that sparks him with anger, that makes him want to rage and scream and put his fist through the mirror on the wall. He has no right to judge those men, none whatsoever, not when he handed over crisp bank notes himself in exchange for a warm hole to fuck, those men _just like him._ He forces himself to breathe deeply, to snag his fingernails into his palm as he stares down at the table in silence. It’s not the same, _he’s_ not the same. He just wanted him safe, he just did what he had to to keep him off the streets and somewhere warm for a few hours. Pasta. He just wanted to cook him pasta.

 

“We’re checking out the CCTV,” Frank informs him as he gathers together his notes, his handwritten transcription of Will’s interview. “You better hope he’s not talking shit, because don’t think for a single goddamn second that I won’t have your licence.”

 

“Wait,” Pete bites his lip and demands eye contact, desperation thundering through him in time with his pulse, blurring his edges and rendering him a mess of panic and whispered demands. “Patrick? I mean… What happens now?”

 

“I check the footage,” Frank shrugs. “I get Will into a safe house and your boy stays exactly where he is until I know I can keep him safe.” He softens a little as Pete sniffs back tears, a warm hand rough against his shoulder, “You’ll see him tonight, won’t you? Tell him. Let him know he’s going home.”

 

Pete wraps his hand over Frank’s, squeezes and nods, presses the heel of his free hand to his eyes to swipe away the burn of salted relief. Patrick’s coming home, back to the apartment, to cocoa and cable and breakfast in bed. He’s never seen Patrick wake up, he realises with a pang, hasn’t seem him half conscious and mussed with sleep, with grit in his eyes and a scowl on his lips. He’s never laid with him in an unmade bed and planned their day. They’ve never celebrated a birthday, an anniversary or a holiday together and yet he knows he yearns to. He wants to carve pumpkins with him, to decorate the christmas tree - not that he owns one, but still - to exchange stupid, cheesy Valentine’s card and spend hours choosing his birthday gifts. Is it unhealthy? He’s not sure he knows any more, just knows he wants it all so badly he aches with it.

 

He supposes, as he glances at his watch, that he ought to get to work before he finds himself fired.

 

The day drags interminably for Pete, his eyes flicking to Joe with perpetual hope each time his phone rings. Joe seems sympathetic to start, kind eyes and gentle murmurs of reassurance after each call that isn’t Frank. By early afternoon that patience abandons him and he growls a _”fuck off, Pete”_ every time he hangs up. 

 

It’s inevitable, of course, that the call comes in whilst he’s using the bathroom, Joe’s broad grin the only confirmation he needs as he hurries back to his desk. The cheesy little double thumbs up doesn’t hurt though, or the exaggerated whisper across four feet of cheap carpet and plywood furniture, “CCTV checks out, nothing formal yet, but he’s pretty sure the case against Patrick’s gonna be dropped in the next forty-eight hours.”

 

“I’ve got to tell him,” Pete mumbles around a grin so wide it aches down into his jaw. 

 

“Slow down, asshole,” Joe is frowning brows and smiling lips, a skip in his voice and a gleam in his eyes as he fakes stern, pretends to be in control. “You don’t tell him yet, you can’t compromise the investigation.”

 

“What the fuck ever, man,” Pete knows his grin is blinding, that joy radiates from him like sunlight because he might not have him home for christmas but it still beats the shit out of thirty goddamn years. “I’m telling him.”

 

That joy, that unabashed suffusing warmth that travels through him like molten heat, warming his very core with a kind of gentle light, it’s enough to get him through the rest of the day. It’s enough to keep a spring to his step all the way to the station, keeps him grinning at strangers on the train ride across the city to the expansive, grey facility that still can’t steal the light that shines from Patrick’s smile as Pete slips into a plastic chair and grins through the window at his golden boy.

 

“You look happy,” Patrick greets him, not without suspicion, as he slumps into the chair opposite.

 

“You need a haircut,” Pete points out, whilst secretly thinking the opposite, mind lost in a whirl of honey blonde strands caught between his fingers, of holding petal plush lips flush to his throat as the velvet smoothness of a thick, hard cock presses inside of him. Dirty thoughts from a dirty old man - but for once the words don’t make him shudder with revulsion. 

 

“So do you, King of the Emos,” Patrick grins, a crooked little twist of a smile. “Pretentious asshole.”

 

“I missed you too,” Pete answers with an irritated huff puffed out without malice through pouting lips. “But I have some news.”

 

“My hearing?” Patrick looks nervous and vulnerable, lower lip snagged tight between his teeth as he tries to smooth the lines of apprehension from his face. 

 

“No, good news,” Pete promises curling a hand around Patrick’s - fuck the guards, fuck everyone, he’ll touch his golden boy while he delivers this moment of honey sweet relief, he’ll touch him like he can absorb him, like he can steal him away from the grey and let him shine. “I met a friend of yours… William. Nice kid, thinks a lot of-”

 

“What the fuck, Pete?” Patrick snarls and he snaps, he drags his hand back leaving cold formica in its place, thunder darkening his shine, gathering clouds that dim his sparkle and spark fire in storm wave eyes. “I told you to leave him alone.”

 

“You didn’t tell me shit,” Pete reminds him, as the tension crackles bright between them, this isn’t what he wants, this isn’t how this is supposed to happen. “Now are you gonna let me finish or not?”

 

“Whatever, man,” Patrick rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, curls in on himself defensively. 

 

“I spoke to Will,” Pete continues, voice low and teeth clenched, nails biting sharp into his palms as he tries not to care that Patrick is ruining his moment with teenage petulance. “He gave a statement about where you were that night. He’s safe, before you ask, I told you I could take care of it. I won’t bore you with the details you really don’t give a shit about but, long story short? Charges are being dropped against you, Joe’s coming with Frank tomorrow to formally notify you. They thought… They said it might be nice for us if I got to tell you. But fuck it, whatever.”

 

Pete doesn’t like silence. He doesn’t like the way it curls around him like choking smoke that clogs his lungs and darkens his edges like all of his worst childhood nightmares. Silence is a parking lot with a handful of pills and voices that whisper cold threats into his ear. Silence is being alone, it’s watching the clock move by and knowing he’s standing still. Silence is broken by a golden voice, as bright and sweet as honey, as smooth and rich as chocolate that rolls over Pete as a warm hand covers his once more.

 

“I… You mean it?” There’s a flicker of the boy Patrick should be caught in his voice, the tremulous teenage uncertainty that he’s never shown, hiding behind his armour of smartassed snark that keeps the wolves from the door. It’s his wall of don’t fuck with me, his castle of I’m not weak but slowly, with his hand trembling against Pete’s, the walls tumble, the barricades break and he’s the Patrick below the surface. “I’m going home?”

 

“They’re keeping your here for a while longer,” Pete doesn’t want to break him, doesn’t want the delicate threads to tear any further, but lying would be senseless. “Think of it as a safe house rather than a detention centre. It’s just for now, just until they… Until they know you’re safe.”

 

It hangs unsaid that he means from Gabe - Gabriel Saporta, known dealer and, apparently seller of young boys that have nowhere else to go, milking his cash cows until they piss him off. Visions of a bleeding teen laid out in front of his apartment building dance in his head, but it’s blonde hair he sees matted crimson, blue eyes swollen shut and plump lips thickened with swelling. Pete knows Gabe will be assigned a defender - his frozen assets won’t avail themselves for a self-appointed hotshot - chances are it’ll be someone Pete works with, someone he’s sat with for coffee that’s going to stand in court and call Patrick and Will liars. He’s ill with it. 

 

But no, none of that matters. Patrick’s coming home.

 

“Okay,” Patrick nods and smiles a faraway sort of smile, rubbing his thumb lightly against his plush lower lip. Their eyes meet, the twinkle and sparkle in Patrick’s a sight to behold, shining bright like beacons as he squeezes Pete’s hand, lowers the other under the table and, with a smirk that lights a fire between them, he presses a hand between his legs and closes his eyes with a moan lost in a bitten lip. Pete doesn’t need to look to know what Patrick’s doing, the blatancy of it striking a pulse, sharp and throbbing, between his legs.

 

He's a teasing little bastard, Pete decides with his dry mouth and pounding heart, watching the deliberate motions of Patrick's right arm. Patrick's grinning at him, lower lip snagged between his teeth, eyes sparkling and challenge written across his face. It's busking in the park all over again, all invitation to touch knowing Pete can't possibly accept the offer.

 

“I've missed you, you know,” Patrick murmurs behind his hand, determined the guards won't hear.

 

“Oh yeah?” Pete joins in but cautiously, hesitantly. “What did you miss?”

 

“I've missed…” Patrick closes his eyes for a second, squirming against his seat and Pete knows, if he were to glance under the table, he'd be able to see the thick strain of Patrick's hard cock against the crotch of his sweatpants. He'd be able to watch him sliding his palm over the length of it. If he's not wearing underwear - Pete shivers a little at the thought - maybe he'd be able to watch a slight, darker smudge of grey forming right at the head. “I've missed… Cuddling on the couch.”

 

“Asshole,” Pete laughs softly. “Try again. Come on, babe, for me?”

 

“Okay, fine,” Patrick rolls his eyes playfully, biting off a low groan. “I've missed you sucking my dick. What I want, when we get out of here, is a really fucking good blowjob. I want you to take your time, like that first time, you know?”

 

“Right, I get it,” Pete nods and shoots a subtle glance around, no one’s paying attention. He slides his hand up and over Patrick's knee, up his thigh and, finally, over the deliciously hard swell of his cock. He was right, that little shit isn't wearing underwear. He traces the shape of his cock with teasing fingertips as Patrick closes his eyes and lolls forward slightly, sagging in his seat. “So you want me to undress you? You want me to kiss you first, just how you like it, then I'll move lower, right? Kiss your neck, that spot by your ear… You know, I've never really spent any time on your nipples, I wonder if they're sensitive,” Patrick's hand wanders to his chest instinctively, a little whine falling from plump lips as his nails graze over his nipple, “Wow, that's good to know… So then I'd get to that big, hard cock, then what?”

 

He withdraws his hand as the guard begins to circulate the room, both folded neatly in front of him. Once he's passed, Patrick continues stroking himself slowly, a little frown of concentration creasing his brow. “Will you laugh at me if I come in my fucking pants?”

 

“I think it would be the hottest thing I've ever seen,” Pete answers with the kind of honesty that only comes from a man with a dick that's hard and aching in his pants. “I wouldn't let you come though - when I'm sucking your dick - because I want you to fuck me. Been thinking about it since that first night, I want you to finger me while you suck me then push that fucking amazing cock so deep inside of me I can't think. I bet you're a fucking amazing top, bet you could make me come so fucking hard - can you imagine it? My ass around your dick, all that tight heat-”

 

“Maybe I'd eat you out,” Patrick's breathless though his hand isn't moving any faster, the same languid strokes. “Would you moan for me if I did? I love it when you moan for me… And I'm not gonna lie, I'd love to fuck you, love it if you'd ride my dick and come all over me, I… I… Oh fuck…”

 

“Seriously?” Pete prompts, enraptured. “Are you _actually_ gonna come? Jesus Christ…”

 

“Shut up,” Patrick's breathing is hard and erratic, unsteady huffs of air that brush Pete's cheek across the table, doing nothing to abate the urge to slam him over the damn thing, drag down his pants and suck him until the only word he knows is Pete. “I'm seventeen and I haven't got off since we last fucked… Help me or fuck off.”

 

Pete grins like a promise and laughs like a tease, need and want and desire caught in a tooth-bright smile as he runs his thumb lightly over the seam of his lips, considering his golden boy as Patrick strokes and swallows down moans. 

 

“You want to get that pretty dick out for me,” Pete murmurs into his collar, eyes on Patrick and twinkling with challenge. “You should, go ahead baby, just tug down those pants and slide your hand inside. D’you want my mouth, `Trick? Should I get down on my knees under this table right now and suck on that big, hard cock? I want to, you’ve got no idea how much I want to, fuck, I’m gonna make you beg me for it, I’m gonna suck you ‘til you can’t think, ‘til I’m all you know, all spread out on the bed. I’m gonna make you come for me, baby, then I’m gonna fuck you, fuck that pretty little ass and…”

 

He trails off as Patrick’s stiffens, as his back arches almost imperceptibly and muscles cord and flex under a gaze as sharp as copper pennies. The grunt is so soft it’s like a shuddering caress, his nails raking against the back of Pete’s hand as he lets go, as he twists and gasps against the cheap plastic chair. Pete watches and aches in all of the most impossible ways, maddened by the need to pull him close, to feel him shudder out his orgasm against his chest, teeth bright against Pete’s throat, hands fisted in his hair. 

 

Next time, he promises himself, just like he did the first time, next time he’ll do everything Patrick wants and everything he’s never even considered. Next time he’ll delight in each inch of the kid’s body, he’ll lose hours to mapping each stretch of pale skin, each freckle will be committed to memory, each lover’s touch that stirs a gasp or a sigh stored and filed and saved for the time after and the one after that and all of the times until there’s no more breath in his body. Patrick lowers his head into his hands with a deep sigh, an approving little hum slipping from him. “Holy shit…”

 

“Feel better?” Pete knows he’s smirking, can feel it etched sharp across his face as Patrick shivers through the aftershocks. “Fuck, you’ve got no idea how good you look right now…”

 

The rest of the visit passes in a blur of stolen brushes of soft hands, of smiles that tug at lips that ache for more and whispered declarations hushed on needy tongues. It’s too soon when time is called, when Patrick shucks off his sweatshirt and knots it around his waist to hide the damp patch, when he shoots Pete a wink and murmurs a promise of filth and fantasy about next time. He can’t sneak a kiss, can’t drop another _I love you_ into the soft shell of his ear, he can just say goodbye with a promise to be back when he’s released, to pick him up and take him _home._

 

He’s aware of the arrest notice coming through for Gabe Saporta the next day, they found him in some falling down shithole in the city with enough evidence and enough terrified young boys to give the fellas at Chicago PD a flying start in constructing their case against him. He speaks to Gerard about Will, finds out he’s been placed in a safe house on the other side of the city. He’s terrified but compliant, willing to pursue his statement and stand as a witness via video link if necessary. Pete’s fingerprints are sticky across the case, the residue of his touch flagrant for all to see but it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because the evidence stacks up and Patrick is _safe._

 

Christmas passes in a blur of visits to his family home and sleeping in his childhood bed surrounded by the grinning faces of bands he still wears emblazoned across his chest. The bands Patrick teased him about without mercy as they sat and watched TV together. There are no visits to the facility over the holiday, no phone calls as he’s not a relative. But there’s the memory of whispered promises, there’s the knowledge that he’s being released and, a mere four months from his eighteenth birthday, no one is pushing for a placement as long as he enrols back into high school. Pete sits by the Christmas tree with his family unwrapping the usual sorts of gifts and aches for a boy in a grey room, alone but for the other boys - not the ones that gather under the streetlight but just as lonely, just as unloved - a boy with no gift to open. 

 

He aches and he promises himself he’ll make it up to him. He has a date, the twenty-seventh, when he’ll collect him from the facility and take him straight into the city. He already has a plan about the music store they’re going to visit, the new guitar he’ll encourage him to pick out because goddammit the one he’s been using is a piece of shit. Two more days. Forty-eight hours until he has his golden boy.

 

And when the twenty-seventh dawns, bright and crisp with fresh snowfall, he slips on his coat and makes his way across the city, winding on the tracks in a train that still smells of piss. It doesn’t matter though, nothing can dampen his spirit, it shines from him in a way it hasn’t done in years, his eyes bright with it, his smile glowing at everyone around him. Even the detention centre doesn’t seem quite so bad in the blinding gleam of sun against snow that stings his eyes and crunches under his wholly inappropriate sneakers. As a native Chicagoan he really ought to be prepared for the winter. As a failed adult man child, he really is not.

 

He grins at the woman behind the desk, raps his knuckles impatiently against the wood as she taps interminably at her keyboard before finally raising her eyes with a sigh that gusts with boredom and apathy. Doesn’t she know Patrick is being released? Doesn’t she care?

 

“I’m here to collect Patrick Stumph,” he declares and his heart sings with it, up on his toes as he cranes his neck to see back into the facility through the heavy grey doors to her left. There’s snow in his shoe, wet and cold and irritating, he wriggles his toes uncomfortably against his damp sock. “He’s uh… He’s being released today.”

 

“Already gone,” she informs him in a government issue monotone, eyes barely flickering from her screen.

 

“No,” Pete smiles politely and shakes his head because she’s both wrong and ridiculous. This is their love story, the start of a happy ever after and it isn’t going to be stolen from him by someone in a badly fitting polyblend uniform with an attitude problem. “I was told to pick him up from here at 12.”

 

“Well, that’s nice,” sarcasm burns her voice black and bitter. “But his _social worker_ was told 11. He’s already gone.”

 

Fairytales aren’t for everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, stop. Don't look at me like that. Like I'd be able to resist one last time...
> 
> Comments and kudos keep me writing... I mean, let's be honest I'll write anyway, but you'll make me happier. You want me to be happy, right?
> 
> Have a wonderful weekend!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Is anyone else excited? I'm excited! I've been excited since I finished writing this back in OCTOBER. That kind of excited. I really hope you've enjoyed what you've read and that this ending is fitting...

Life without Patrick should probably be getting easier as the days and weeks wind their inevitable way into months. Soon, Pete knows, the time will be measured in years since he last saw him, the way his grin lit up the room as he tied his sweater around his waist and headed back into the detention centre. Pete knows that, eventually, he’ll forget the way those plump lips curved into a smirk that spoke of promise. He won’t be able to recall the exact shade of his eyes or the way his body fit to Pete’s just so. The memories will dull with the pain and he’ll move on and one day, Joe will crack a joke about that time he screwed a client and he’ll blush and laugh and change the subject without it hurting somewhere low in his chest.

 

But right now, in this very moment in a crowded bar somewhere in Chicago, it doesn’t feel easy at all. It’s a reunion of sorts, four years since they graduated from college and the room is filled with faces he recognises. He nods to Mikey, raises his beer bottle to Frank and, with a sick sort of determination, threads his way across the room to join Gerard against the bar.

 

“Don’t even ask,” Gerard stops him with a raised hand that isn’t deflected by Pete’s vicious scowl. “I can’t tell you. I’ve already told you that.”

 

“Just tell me if he’s okay,” Pete pleads. Gerard was the social worker that collected Patrick from the detention centre. Gerard was the one that called him and asked him if he was actually insane for thinking the state would just release a seventeen year old detainee into the waiting arms of his twenty-five year old public defender boyfriend. A minor with a starring role in an upcoming trial - seriously, was Pete _fucking insane?_

 

“I already told you, he’s fine,” Gerard shouts over the music, over the revelry, over everything Pete really doesn’t have time for. “But I’m not gonna tell you where he is.”

 

Gerard is an asshole.

 

Andy joins him, warm smile and warm hand on his shoulder as he gestures back over the bar, “I’m amazed this many showed up.”

 

“Yeah, well,” Pete shrugs, done with pretending he cares, past the point of fooling himself that he’s distracted from the ache in his gut. It’s been four fucking months, he only knew him for six weeks, when is this going to stop _hurting?_ “That’s the power of social media for you.”

 

“So, listen,” Andy begins cautiously. “I have a friend that’s here with me, he’s a doctor, too. Uh, anyway, I thought you might like to meet him? His name’s Dallon, I think you’d really like him…”

 

Pete blinks at Andy slowly, unsure if it’s the alcohol that dulls his reactions and makes it so hard to work out what he means or something else. Andy has sat with him on countless nights in bars, in his apartment, at Andy’s place, as they’ve talked over the whole Patrick _thing_ in every direction. Andy has soothed him, reminded him it’s a waiting game, that the kid’s been through alot and needs a chance to adjust. Andy’s given up. Andy thinks he should move on - with someone named Dallon, apparently - find his happiness elsewhere.

 

“I’m going home,” he declares as pain sears through him. He shrugs off Andy’s hand, battles through crowds and out onto the street and the cool drizzle of an April night. It’s soothing, walking the wet sidewalks that shine slick, bright with the glow of the city lights, his shirt soaked and clinging to his skin, hair falling into his eyes. He passes the streetlight - the one where the boys used to gather - but they haven’t been there in months, an organised intervention staged by Child Protective Services. Those boys are safe for now. Who knows if they’ll drift back and every time he passes his heart squeezes tight with the war of hope and dread that he’ll see someone leaning back against the wall, his golden boy with his cap tilted low.

 

He’s shivering by the time he reaches his apartment, the refreshing cool of the spring downpour turning to cold that chills down into his bones as he plods in squelching leather shoes through the entryway and up the stairs to his door. He realises in the split second that he swings it closed behind him and reaches for the light switch that something is wrong, that he’s not alone in the apartment. He knows it with every primitive instinct that he possesses and he freezes, hand outstretched and eyes wide, staring into the gloom of a room lit only by the dubious glow of a flickering streetlight outside.

 

He pauses for a moment, listens for movement, watches for a flash of a shadow across the floor but there’s nothing, not a sound, not a flicker, just ringing silence. Cautiously, he slides a hand to his coat rack, fingers closing around the solid weight of the baseball bat he keeps there, bought in a moment of nostalgic drunken reminiscence about Little League and how he, Joe and Andy should organise a team. They never did, but the bat remains, mocking him for his inability to follow up on anything but right now, clutched hard and reassuring in his shaking hands, slung back over his shoulder like he’s ready to take his shot at the big leagues, he’s pretty glad of its presence.

 

Should he call out to warn whoever it is? He feels like that might be counter-intuitive and he’s reasonably certain the law is on his side if he keeps the element of surprise. He slides out of his shoes and makes his way deftly across his living room. There’s no one there, no one lurking on the couch or crouched behind the armchair, no one hiding behind the kitchen counter. He checks the bedroom and the guest room with a heart that threatens to burst through his ribs, wondering as fear blurs his vision if he ought to just do the sensible thing and lock the intruder inside and call the police and let them do their job. There’s only one person he can imagine it might be, one nightmarish boogeyman that lurks, terrifying and twisted, at the edges of his consciousness.

 

Gabe Saporta.

 

What if he’s been released? What if he’s used connections to send someone to Pete’s place to do what he told Patrick he’d do? He’s being ridiculous, there’s no one else in the apartment, paranoia is pulling his gut and dulling his wit. He lowers the bat with a deep breath, only to yank it back over his shoulder as the toilet flushes and the faucet groans into life - do murderers use the bathroom? He supposes they must, everybody else does. Is this _really_ going to be his last living thought?

 

The bathroom door swings open and the light within clicks off, blinding him with contracting pupils as he takes a swing. There’s a deafening roar - his - a yelp of _what the fuck_ \- familiar - and his panicked attempt at self defence is thwarted by an arm easily deflecting his panic-weak swing. There’s sleep-mussed blonde hair, painted dark by the gloom, there are eyes soft with sleep but flooded with confusion and lips, lush and tempting, twisted into a grimace.

 

“P-Patrick?” He stammers, hard breath, quick, sharp, burns his lungs. Can’t be real, won’t be real, _isn’t_ real.

 

“Is that a baseball bat?” Patrick points weakly, still soft with sleep and scrubbing at his eyes. “Or are you just pleased to see me?”

 

Pete can’t move. He’s frozen, hand suddenly loose against the handle, bat clattering to the floor as he stares, wide eyed and open mouthed. It’s not real. He’s drunk, he’s fallen and slammed his head off the concrete steps outside and now he’s bleeding out onto the sidewalk. Trembling fingertips brush the worn cotton of an AC/DC shirt he used to own that was stolen, along with his heart, by someone that couldn’t even manage to steal his wallet.

 

“Pete?” Patrick’s suddenly a tremor of uncertainty, blue eyes blinking, hands tugging and twisting at the hem of his shirt. He’s wearing Pete’s pajama pants. Pete is a mess of _what the fuck is going on,_ of _I don’t understand._ “Do you want me to leave?”

 

Leave? The fingertips shift, tighten into a fist of cotton in the centre of Patrick’s chest, dragging him close as he mumbles nonsense, “Don’t leave, never leave, you can’t, just… you _can’t…”_

 

“I can’t,” Patrick agrees as his hands slide to cup Pete’s face, warm and dry against the damp chill of Pete’s skin. There’s a ghost of warm breath against his lips as Patrick pauses, mouths separated by nothing more than a hum of air and need, eyes darkened like midnight lakes as he regards Pete with a crooked kind of half smile. “Nice suit, motherfucker.”

 

“If you don’t like it,” he begins, alight with the way he can taste Patrick’s breath against his lips, “then why don’t you take it off me?”

 

“Now why would I do something like that?” They’re teasing one another, Pete can feel the rising heat of his cock in his pants, can see the flush of arousal that crests Patrick’s cheeks, that lends sparkle to his eyes.

 

“I dare you,” Pete grins, hands pressed to the wall either side of Patrick’s head, caging him in desire, “to kiss me.”

 

The beautiful boy with the petal plush lips never could resist a dare; his golden boy, his Patrick. There’s a clench around his heart like a fist as that mouth teases closer, as the hands on his face draw him down and there it is, fire and spark, the flutter of an inquisitive tongue against his lips that part like waves and Patrick is licking into his mouth with an approving hum that resonates through him. They crash together like the slam of hips, bodies flush, the press of a hard cock through flannel pants and Pete _needs_ in ways he can’t articulate. Lips, soft lips, warm tongue and grasping hands wound into dirty blonde hair that touches pale shoulders now. Pete decides he likes it, likes the run of it through his fingers, the way it catches and slides silk smooth against his hands.

 

Patrick curses the knot of Pete’s tie, hisses threats at the buttons of his shirt as they stagger, lust drunk and unsteady, back towards the bedroom. They stumble trip their way over the cheap linoleum, pulling at clothes in breathless irritation and somehow, as they hit the mattress, tumble down and land together, there’s nothing between them, just skin and sweat and lips that can’t bear to part. The sheets are rumpled, all stained with the scent of Patrick and Pete is laughing against lips that taste like home because, what, that cocky little asshole just broke in and made himself at home? Took himself to Pete’s bed in Pete’s pajamas like…

 

Like it’s where he belongs.

 

The smell of the sheets, the taste of the lips, the satin soft brush of porcelain pale skin against his own, Pete takes it, lets it wash against him and lets go. He unlocks down to the very core of himself, all the tension, all of the uncertainty gusting out on a breath he’s been holding for four months. He relaxes down in a cocoon that feels like _them,_ finds himself pinned beneath a body stripped to a glow by artificial moonlight breaching the curtains, lost in lips that whisper hushed promises as a hand strokes his cheek and Patrick murmurs, “Only you, you know that, asshole? I… I waited for _you…”_

 

The sincerity weighs them down and now it’s Pete’s tongue pressing into Patrick’s mouth, nipping and sucking at that fucking sinful lower lip until it’s flushed and swollen. Patrick begs like a prayer and slides his hand around Pete’s cock like a promise, the pad of his thumb tracing a tease around the head. Pete’s groaning and pleading and arching his hips because there’s something he needs, something they talked about in a grey room lit up by a smile that was sun bright and teasing but before he can articulate it, before he can ask, there are words spilling from plump lips with a desperate sort of moan.

 

“I think I was promised a blowjob?” Patrick’s all wrapped in a playful smile, scarred eyebrow arched - Pete’s never asked him how he got it and suddenly it seems important. He’s never asked about the one on his wrist or kissed the trio of tiny freckles on his left hip - noticed in flickering candlelight on a mattress in a half built office block. So many tiny details to fall in love with; the way his eyes twinkle when he smiles, the way his nose scrunches when he forces down coffee, the way he drags his lower lip over his teeth as he comes.

 

“Oh yeah?” Pete teases, hand slipping around the solid heat of Patrick’s prick. “Who promised you that? Do I need to get jealous?”

 

“Nah, you just need to get on your knees,” Patrick grins, playful with promise.

 

“You wish,” Pete groans as the hand on his cock begins to move, slow, languid strokes that light fire over his skin. “I’m never leaving this bed. Get on your back.”

 

If Pete had thought he could tease him it drains from him the moment Patrick blinks up at him from messy sheets, legs spread and fingers framing his cock in a slow stroke. It’s lost in a playfully bitten lip and arched eyebrows that say _resist me, motherfucker, just try it._ It’s washed away in a breathy little moan as his free hand tucks behind his head and Pete can - once again - press his nose to Patrick’s underarm, to take in the smell of Axe, faint sweat and _boy_ all over again. He kisses him, sharing breaths like dreams, warm and sweet in the dark confines of the room. Lower to the pale curve of Patrick’s throat, lips and teeth against sensitive skin as hands grab hips that squirm and writhe. He kisses collarbones and drags his tongue, hot and wet, over the tight, pink bud of a nipple, eliciting a gasped curse and a hand fisted tight in his hair.

 

There’s a slick bloom of precome at the satin soft tip of Patrick’s cock, flushed cherry red and crowned with that enticing little freckle and any notion of drawing it out is lost in a few desperate strokes of his tongue against the shaft, curving around to lap each taste from skin like silk. He swallows him down to the lilt of a soft cry of _Pete,_ the nudge of him firm against the back of his throat almost foreign because, yeah, Pete’s waited too, feels out of practice although he knows that’s ridiculous. There’s a blissed out grin caught around a bitten lip, thrusting hips and weak moans that spill sweet as syrup over Pete’s skin. Patrick’s hips roll with the bob of Pete’s head, hair sweat slick caught on his brow, lashes fluttered soft on his cheeks as his eyes fall closed and a desperate sort of whimper shivers down Pete’s spine to run insistent fingers up his cock.

 

“You know,” he pulls off to whisper, hand still a steady pull against hard, heated flesh that he wants, he wants so badly. “I think we talked about something else last time we spoke…”

 

“Oh yeah?” Patrick’s smirking bright and arrogant as Pete crawls to his lips, as he hovers over him with a kiss that tastes of cock and come. “And what was that?”

 

“If I’m remembering right-” honey gold fingers slide around a cream pale wrist, guiding a hand back and down to the firm swell of Pete’s ass, “I think you promised to fuck me until I come all over you. You know where the lube is… Go ahead and impress me.”

 

With that he sucks a brand, his lips outlined in blooming bruises, to Patrick’s collarbone and moves onto his back, legs spread and expectant. There’s a moment of hard breathing and slow nodding then Patrick is reaching into the nightstand, groping and fumbling until he finds the lube, finds Pete’s lips in the gloom and seals their mouths with a whine, hips a desperate grind against Pete’s as they groan filthy promises against lips and tongues. Patrick slides lower, lips planning a map of skin and sweat, a tongue that finds sensitive places and a mouth that teases with gentle promise. By the time he’s between Pete’s legs, cock down his throat and two fingers slippery slick, Pete is a mess, a jumbled, deconstructed wasteland of needs and wants.

 

“You okay?” Patrick asks with sudden tenderness flooding his eyes, fingers feather soft against the pucker of Pete’s ass, a pause as he bites a hickey into Pete’s hip.

 

“Fuck yeah, I am,” Pete lets out a growl that drifts to a groan as the first finger slips inside, as a warm mouth slides down over his cock in perfect complement. He strokes through that pretty long hair and fucks up into that velvet plush mouth and cries out a curse and a prayer as the second finger breaches him slowly. Then there are three, a curve of ecstatic wonder brushing the place that scatters the room with stars, that washes Pete’s vision to white with each buck of hips to a beautiful boy bathed gold.

 

“Enough,” he pleads, yanking on strands of gold washed to copper in the light. “Come on, enough. Fuck me, please… Just…”

 

There’s a shuffle of elbows and knees as Patrick crawls to cover him, to brace his body over Pete’s with a low breath. Their mouths meet - softer this time, tender - as Patrick strokes Pete’s hair, his face, trails a hand over his ribs and hips and back again. Pete reaches for a condom, hand half stretched for the nightstand but Patrick stops him with a smile, “We don’t have to. I was tested at the detention centre… I’m clean.”

 

Pete nods because, if he’s being totally honest, at this point - nerve endings crying out in desperation for the slide of Patrick against him, the stretch and burn of that magnificent cock buried inside him - he’d agree to anything. He snatches at the lube and coats Patrick’s prick with teasing strokes that elicit moans and the flutter-droop of eyelids that can’t stay open. They shift, Patrick sliding an arm under Pete’s shoulder, the other hand tight to his hip, as Pete spreads his legs just a little further, arches his hips and guides Patrick to his hole. There’s a pause, loaded with looks, golden with glances from under lashes and the soft brush of softer lips and then Patrick moves, rolling his hips forward to breach the tight pucker. 

 

Patrick stills, just inside, just the head thick and flared and pulsing fire through Pete, head dropped and lips a suggestion of damp heat against Pete’s throat, voice a hoarse whisper against his ear that makes him shiver with longing, “I can go slow, just tell me when you’re ready…”

 

And Pete wraps his legs around narrow hips, digs his heels into the back of Patrick’s thighs and, with a groan, drags him inside until he’s fitted flush to the curve of Pete’s ass. Patrick gasps out a curse as Pete growls out his name, teeth sinking solid and bright into Pete’s shoulder as the world seems to retract around them, as everything reduces to the heated burn of Patrick inside of him.

 

“I- I’ve never,” Patrick stutters insensible. He stammers breaths into the wet heat of Pete’s throat, he shudders delight as he sucks desperate bruises like brands against whatever skin he can catch with his lips.

 

“I know, you’re doing so good,” Pete reassures in a kiss, slurs promises around the slot of mouths and the curve of tongues. Patrick’s never fucked, only been fucked. Pete needs this, he’s not sure his heart can carry on beating if Patrick stops, convinced there’s nothing but the bloom of bruises at shoulder and hip that keep him existing. Patrick’s locked still and panting, head dropped like a surrender, back arched like a defeat and Pete is breath held and waiting… waiting...

 

There’s a _motherfucker_ and a grunt, a _fuck_ and a sigh that shakes everything and Patrick starts to _move._ And okay, that’s good, that’s the slick pull of heated hardness dragging a beat against Pete in sensitive places. It’s the stretch of tight muscle a roll of hips pressed hard under his thighs as he twists up and up and begs with silent need for _more, please God more._ Patrick gives it, the gradual slide of each pull back and the smooth press of each thrust in and Pete is groaning declarations beneath him. 

 

They’re tangled close, closer, the closest Pete thinks they’ve ever been, breathing heat into one another’s lungs, sharing blood from a synchronised heartbeat that thrums between them on bodies twisted together. Pete’s nails summon a symphony of want and desire against the cream pale score of Patrick’s back, their love song, their private melody that only the two of them will ever share. Pete’s thinking in atoms and groaning in song, lost completely to anything but the press of Patrick, the shuddering thrill of possession that he bites into a porcelain shoulder, that he screams into the pale, damp heat of a muscle-tight throat.

 

Patrick finds the frayed threads of Pete’s undoing, shudders feather soft against the tangles and knots and pulls, slowly pulls, drawing the heat from his belly, pulling, shifting, tugging, grazing against it until Pete’s vision washes black and then starburst. Patrick tangles himself deep, each stroke, each thrust, each push and pull of hard against smooth a fraction closer, another tug forward, another handful of Pete gathered up and clutched close. Because this, _this,_ is everything, this is the epicentre of Pete’s very being shuddering shocks against Patrick’s body, this is that tight coil of heat pooling and spreading, sinking through his bloodstream until his ears ring and his lungs shudder and his throat bleeds raw.

 

“Let go,” Patrick whispers like sweet promises, hand circling soft around the satiny shaft of Pete’s prick, thumb finding secret spots that spark swirling stars and Pete’s lost amongst them, dizzy with need. ”Come on, Pete, let go for me…”

 

Eyes open and lock on ocean depths, on skin flushed bright with burning lust and lips fallen soft in a pout like petals. Patrick gazes back, smiles, the edges hazy and soft with something warm and tender and snags that lip tight, rolls his hips like waves and then he finds it, the thick flare of his cock dragging a beat against _that_ spot, that hidden hum of ecstasy that drags Pete direct to the event horizon. 

 

The hand on his cock tightens flush, strokes a shudder down into his soul as he locks up, freezes, feels nothing but the slide and rock of Patrick’s prick in and out. When it hits, it’s like a tidal wave, a towering tsunami of tingling nerve endings that shred raw as he slams against Patrick, as he drags him in with lust-greed thighs and hands wound through hair like copper and gold and blinding sunlight. He lets go, feels the room rip and tear at the seams until they’re imploding together, folding in and in and in until there’s nothing left but endless ribbons of white that slick like pearl on skin, until there’s the twitch and jerk of Patrick inside of him and honey-sweet moans that sing on soundwaves between them.

 

“I love you,” Pete gasps around shuddering aftershocks that shake him insensible. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

 

“Love you, love you, love you,” Patrick chants like a prayer, words tangling with Pete’s, lips sharing soft secrets and bolted breaths as they tremble together.

 

And as the tremors subside, as the life comes back to his limbs and his lungs he shifts, raises his head and pushes a hand through the soft sweep of Patrick’s hair. There are eyes locked on his that shimmer bright with unshed tears and then in half a heartbeat he’s cradling a suddenly-sobbing boy to his chest. Patrick sobs half-thoughts and semi-sentences into Pete’s chest, stammering desperately against damp skin, “I’m sorry… I just- I never… I’m okay, swear I’m okay, I- I love… I love you…”

 

Pete hushes him softly, strokes sweat-damp hair and tastes kiss-swollen lips. He curls him close and soothes him soft, stroking patterns into his skin as he hiccups out how overwhelmed he is. He holds him and he realises; Patrick isn’t breaking, he’s healing, he isn’t sobbing out pain but content he can’t articulate. He kisses his hair, tucks another of those soft _I love yous_ into his ear, takes the one that’s pressed somewhere close to his heart with a soft smile. He holds him and he waits until the sobs subside and Patrick can take a shuddering breath then murmurs to him softly, “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” there’s a flush to Patrick’s cheeks as he pulls out with a groan and flops to his back. Pete gropes with a lazy arm and finds his shirt, wiping Patrick clean with gentle care. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-”

 

“Never apologise,” Pete whispers as he drags him close, as he cocoons them in cotton and comforter and settles against warm, bare skin. There’s so much to say but not enough words, the silence comfortable and easy as sleep winds through him, dragging at his edges until he’s soft with it.

 

“Patrick,” he slurs into the dark, the last thought he has before exhaustion drags him down. “Be here in the morning?”

 

“Always,” Patrick’s voice is an echoing hum through his chest. “Every morning, I swear.”

 

*

 

Pete is woken by a smash and a curse and the stream of golden sunlight filtering through the curtains to dance spots of speckled colour behind his eyes. By the time he’s blinked and yawned, and wriggled his toes against the sheets, by the time he’s stretched out an arm to touch the dent in the pillow next to his and lament the fact that there’s no one there to fill it, the room is filled with a whirlwind of Patrick.

 

“I made you coffee,” he chirps, sliding the cup onto the nightstand. Pete doesn’t like black coffee - doesn’t really like filter coffee at all - but Patrick made it for him so he’ll drink it with a smile. “Oh, and good morning, I guess, except it’s like, one in the afternoon, so… Good afternoon seemed kind of a weird way to greet you though…”

 

“And you’re not weird,” Pete takes a mouthful of his coffee, splutters and chokes and looks up at Patrick’s puzzled frown. “Did you filter this?”

 

“I just made it like you make regular coffee,” Patrick shrugs as Pete wipes coffee grounds from his tongue. “Two spoons of coffee then hot water.”

 

“Patrick! That’s how you make _instant_ coffee!” Pete’s laughing as Patrick glows pink, as he stammers a _fuck you_ and grumbles an apology. He’s still chuckling as plump lips find his with an irritated whine of _shut up,_ smiling wide as a tongue that tastes of Cheerios flutters against his own.

 

He’s not laughing quite so hard as that tongue works lower, as Patrick kisses him with promises wrapped in lips. He’s smiling though as that mouth slips down over his cock, as blue eyes twinkle up at him as Patrick licks and sucks and slowly takes Pete apart. He’s twisting, crying out, exploding to nothing as he comes, as Patrick swallows him down, all eye contact and foolish grin.

 

He hauls Patrick up by the collar of his shirt, sharing the taste of his come - sharp and salted - against lips he thought he’d lost but knows he adores. He slides a hand into checked flannel pants to grasp with greed at the unyielding throb of Patrick’s cock, stroking him sticky until he shudders into Pete’s shoulder with a groan, painting his hand and the inside of the pants with the wet warmth of his orgasm. He kicks them off with a shivering sigh, wipes himself and tosses them onto the floor, an unintentional parody of Pete’s own actions from months before, when he laid in his bed and thought about the loud-mouthed shoplifter.

 

For minutes and more Pete lies quiet and still, Patrick’s head against his chest as he cards his fingers through honey blonde hair that smells of shampoo and fresh sweat. It’s muted comfort, immeasurable bliss as their legs twine together and Patrick traces delicate lines across his tattoos, smiling softly. There’s the lightest brush of a petal plush pout against his chest, the breath of a sigh ghosting cool across his skin and, in the calm hush, Patrick speaks quietly, “We should probably talk, right?”

 

“Can we start with why you left me standing in a detention centre looking like an asshole?” Pete feels him flinch at the venom he can’t keep out of the words, at the way they hang between them, heavy with accusation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-”

 

“I didn’t have a choice,” Patrick’s chin is sharp against his chest, blue eyes wide and soft as he gazes up at Pete imploringly. “They told me I had to go with them or they’d make me stay there. I said… I told them they only had me until I was eighteen, I told them to tell you, didn’t they tell you?” Pete shakes his head and Patrick scowls, “Those motherfuckers, Gerard _promised_ he’d tell you, he _swore_ he would…” Black fury swells in his eyes, bright and sharp and burning, licking flames across his face as he struggles upright, grabs at Pete’s hands with quiet desperation, “I wanted you to know I’d come as soon as I turned eighteen and… And I did.”

 

“Wait,” Pete pauses, thinking back on a computer screen in his office, a date of birth that had once struck a tight ball of dread in his stomach. “You’re… You turned eighteen yesterday?”

 

Patrick nods and grins and Pete feels like shit, like he should have done something to celebrate even though he didn’t know he’d show, should have bought him something even though he wasn’t there, another holiday robbed from him. The smile slips from Patrick’s face a little as he tucks his hair back behind his ears, a frown creasing his brow as realisation flits across his features and he squeezes Pete’s hand, uttering words that break his heart all over again.

 

“Dude, seriously, my birthday hasn’t mattered to me since I was eight and they forgot at the home, birthdays aren’t… They’re not a big deal to me, it was just a date they couldn’t control me anymore, you know? A date I could come back to you. Because I love you, I love you so much,” he pauses, lip caught between his teeth in that way he has, bright with hope. He takes a deep breath and continues, voice low. “Do… Do you love me? Like, I know it’s been a while and it was kind of an insane couple months and maybe you didn’t mean… I just… I’ll leave if you want me to and last night was so much fucking fun, I could just-”

 

Pete silences him with a kiss, lips brushing feather soft and tongue teasing gentle and bright until he pulls back with a devilish grin, “I love you to death, asshole, you’re going nowhere. Just so we’re clear though, in this family,” Patrick’s eyes glow at the word, “Birthdays are absolutely mandatory so we’re getting up, getting dressed and I’m gonna take you shopping and _tonight,_ I’m gonna take you on a date.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” Patrick objects, half-assed.

 

“But I _want_ to, I found this great Portuguese place a few months ago, Will really liked it,” he grins and ducks as Patrick swings at him with a pillow. “And we’ll take a walk along the pier and get cotton candy and ride the ferris wheel and then we’ll come home and that thing you did last night? Yeah, we’re doing that again and-”

 

“You’re a romantic son of a bitch,” Patrick laughs, stroking a languid hand against Pete’s cheek, thumb scraping stubble. “You think this can work? For real?”

 

“I know it can,” Pete can feel happiness swelling in his chest, the kind he hasn’t felt since before Adam, before everything turned into a mess of pain and hurt and the constant sting of rejection. But there’s something he needs to know, an awkward knot of uncomfortable heat in his stomach as he shuffles back a little and catches Patrick’s gaze. “Patrick? This is kind of weird but… That first night,” he means the night he paid him, can’t say it out loud, “did you mean what you said after Brendon got hurt? Was- was I was just another cock?”

 

Patrick considers him from eyes Pete’s not sure are capable of holding untruths. If Patrick thinks it, he says it; he’s never needed to moderate himself or censor his thoughts. He’s fresh air in a world of lawyers and lies and manipulation but now, as he watches Pete thoughtfully, as he rests a hand lightly against his thigh, he can feel his heart pulsing hot and messy in his chest. He doesn’t deserve to hear he was anything more than what he was; a man that paid money for a convenient orgasm. A man that took advantage. He can still recall with hot shame burning his cheeks how he’d thought about the next time, how he’d felt irritation sharp in his chest when Patrick asked not to look at him. He deserves to hear the worst.

 

“You were amazing,” Patrick murmurs softly. “Dude, how many guys do you think were careful like you? You know why I didn’t insist on lube? Because no one else asked and… I didn’t _need_ it, I thought it was supposed to hurt. You… you were gentle. You were _nice._ It sounds weird but I left this place halfway in love with you, I only told you to fuck off because that seemed safer. I’m not making any sense but… but…”

 

Pete silences him with a kiss and feels at least some of that guilt roll away. He kept him safe, just like he wanted, and now he gets to keep him safe for as long as he’ll let him. 

 

“I… There’s a job at the DA’s office, I wasn’t gonna apply but…” He trails off with a nod, knows it makes no sense to Patrick but the District Attorney is a great career move; it’s a good pension, prospects. “The hours are better, I’ll get home at a reasonable time, I won’t be working on my laptop all night and… Yeah, I’m gonna go for it.”

 

Patrick nods, a happy hum thrumming from his chest as he grins wide and bright, all shining teeth and eyes that twinkle behind his glasses, “I’m… I’m doing stuff too, you know? I’m finishing high school, I’m applying for college… Gerard says there’s funding because I’m… Well, because I’m a care kid and I checked, it doesn’t affect you, you don’t have to pay for me or anything and I have a job in a music store, it’s only on Saturday mornings but I can _totally_ pay rent and-”

 

“You’ll keep the money,” Pete objects. “I guess I have even more reason to get home on time now… Need to make sure you do your homework…”

 

Patrick hurls himself at him across the expanse of the bed with a _“shut the fuck up,”_ and a grin on his lips that Pete mirrors as they wrestle against the sheets. And Pete decides, contentment settling warm in his chest as he drags Patrick down for a kiss, that taking the bus rather than the L on a cold November morning was just about the best decision he ever made.

 

_Epilogue_

_There were very few points in Patrick’s life before he met Pete that he ever felt truly content. Oh, sure, there were moments that weren’t as bad as the others, days where everything seemed at least “okay.” But he supposed at the time that it didn’t matter if he never felt “perfect” because it wasn’t like he had anything to compare it to. He figured that it was probably for the best that he couldn’t miss what he’d never had. Patrick was philosophical like that._

_So, the first moment of perfect, the first second of bliss, hit him as something of a suckerpunch direct to the stomach. Wrapped around Pete on damp sheets, his skin afire with the flush of his orgasm and Pete’s lips warm and soft against his own, the overwhelming brilliance of it had welled in him like a flash flood. The thing about flash floods is that there’s nowhere for them to go but up, no alternative but for them to bubble over and so it was with Patrick, sobbing and shaking as he buried his face in Pete’s neck and clung to him like that was the only thing keeping him real. Pete soothed but didn’t shush, he cradled him but didn’t overwhelm him, he didn’t understand but he didn’t demand answers. That was enough for Patrick._

_Now, Patrick understands what it is to feel happy - almost - all of the time. He appreciates the contentment that settles in his veins and ticks with his pulse, the warmth of tucking his feet onto Pete’s lap as they work through their paperwork. He knows the fire that can spark from a tired smile as he hands over a cup of coffee - that Pete says he makes perfectly since they bought the expensive machine - and strokes dark hair, drops a kiss onto soft, familiar lips. It doesn’t stop the moments of brilliance from overwhelming him though._

_It came the day he met Pete’s family for the first time, when his mom drew Patrick into a hug and they ate take out and dragged out the karaoke machine. It was there the day he collected his degree in Music Theory from the University of Chicago, when his boyfriend’s smile was the brightest in the room and the pride and sheer, bursting joy threatened to tear Patrick apart down the seams. It was there the day Pete dropped to one knee at the spot he’d been busking in Millennium Park and hopefully held out a gleaming band set with a tiny tourmaline. He said he knew it was cheesy but it matched Patrick’s eyes - a comment that made them mist and sting - and would he consider making Pete the happiest man alive. It was there the day they stood in front of their friends and Pete’s family and declared to anyone that wanted to listen that this was forever._

_It was there the day their daughter was placed into his arms by a grinning Gerard and Pete’s tears had mingled with his own against the peach soft of her skin._

_And yes, there are arguments. There are stupid little fights about who forgot to take out the recycling and who didn’t buy the right kind of pudding pots - it was Pete, by the way, he bought the wrong ones - and there are moments he could cheerfully strangle his husband. But, he’s decided in that philosophical way, that’s a marriage, that’s a life together with a common goal and the storms pass as quickly as they arrive, calmed by a touch, a kiss, a murmured “I’m sorry.”_

_So now, Patrick takes joy in the small things as well as the large. He finds it in picking out furnishings for their beautiful home in the suburbs, in washing the car; it’s a Kia, a sensible, family sort of affair with a good warranty and a great safety rating, not Pete’s sports car dream of old. He finds it in watching Pete lying on the rug in the living room and reading to Abigail (because once they discovered it meant “father’s joy,” how could they name her anything else?). Patrick seizes the happiness in the moments and sometimes he cries, that storm drain inside unable to cope with the flash flood as he assures Pete or Brendon or Dale or Will that yes, he’s fine. He’s better than fine; he’s happy._

_He’s taught himself to take pride in himself too, in all of his achievements, in the certificates and diplomas that hang on the walls of his office, the map of his career from bright-eyed graduate through to fully qualified Music Therapist. He adores his job, working with traumatised children and helping them make sense of the world through music. It can start with nothing more than the furious beat of a drum, encouraging them as they work all of that frustration and anger and fear out into the beat. It can start without words, with the gentle strum of his guitar as they sit in calm silence. It can start just like that as he works with them, weeks, months, whatever it takes, everything they need until it starts to improve, until they use the music to make sense of the world around them, until they can talk about it. Patrick can relate to that._

_And sometimes, he and Pete will stretch out on the couch together, another day of parenting and work and everything that goes along with it leaving them tired down to their very bones, but they’ll still kiss like they’re kids. There’ll be tongues and spit and fire in each lingering touch as they rub and grind against one another each with half an ear on the door in case Brendon comes home early, and the other half on the baby monitor blinking from the coffee table. And sometimes, Patrick will pull back with swollen lips and with lust in riptide eyes, mouth tucked up in the smirk of his teenage years as he strokes Pete’s - short, sensible - hair and whispers like a breathless promise._

_“Hey, Pete? Truth or dare?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... We did it! We're all here, all present and correct! Did everyone have a nice time? I definitely did.
> 
> Thank you all SO very much for reading this week in, week out over the past three months, it's been a blast.
> 
> And don't forget, this is your last chance to tell me what you thought so please, comments below would be SO appreciated.


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